Harry Potter and the Trumped Up Charges
by fictionalcandie
Summary: The Minister of Magic has made a Very Big Mistake: He's convinced himself that Harry Potter is a Criminal. AU as of HBP.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related everything doesn't belong to me. Not at all. Not even a little bit. This plot, however, does kind of belong to me.

**Author's Notes:** I was reading some "super!Harry" fics, of the variety where the Wizarding world betrays him and he gets sent to Azkaban, where he rots for several years before people realize he was innocent and set him free, but low and behold, he's super-powerful all of the sudden and PISSED OFF. Well, so yeah, I was reading those, and I started to get mad that _everyone_ (in the stories) believed he commited whatever crimes he was falsely accused of. So, naturally, I write one of my own, lol.

**o.o.o.o**

Vernon Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, snapped open his morning paper and glared angrily at the words before him. Not that he cared who won some special award for kindness to people who didn't deserve it, oh no.

It was that _boy _again.

The little whelp had had the nerve to come down for breakfast actually smiling. Which meant he was happy. Vernon did not like to see his nephew happy. For the past month, he'd been able to enjoy watching the freak sulk (when the boy thought no-one was watching, of course). And now he was happy.

Vernon thought he knew why, too. And that made it worse.

It was the freak's birthday -- his 16th, to be exact, but Vernon never counted -- and those _freak _friends of his must have sent him _presents_. As if the wretch deserved them.

He'd grabbed a piece of toast and then gone prancing back to Dudley's second bedroom, looking far too happy. Vernon had been grouchy for all twenty minutes since. That whelp was more trouble than he was worth, Marge was right. Why he didn't just get rid of the boy...

The doorbell rang. Glowering, Vernon rose to answer it, almost tripping over his large son on the way to the door. Petunia was dutifully following him.

He was furious when he saw the robed figures standing on his walk. Dudley looked over his shoulder, squeaked, and ran back upstairs. Vernon growled.

Tempted to slam the door in their faces, he instead demanded, "Well?"

The freak closest to him, a shiny and official looking badge pinned to the front of his neatly pressed robes, raised his chin pompously. Arrogantly, he responded, "We're from the Ministry of Magic. We've been ordered here for Harry Potter. You are his guardian?"

"Yes..." Vernon narrowed his eyes. He didn't need Petunia's urgent whisper from behind him to remind him that those _other freaks _had made it clear that no-one was to see his worthless nephew. "Why do you want to see the boy?"

"We've come to collect him," was the smug reply. "Get him, please."

Petunia hissed, and Vernon tightened his grip on the front door. They'd been warned... "Collect him?"

"Yes." The freak was starting to sound annoyed. Vernon raised his eyebrows, clearly conveying his confusion. The freak sighed and stated succinctly,

"He's under arrest."

**o.o.o.o**

"BOY!" Harry heard his uncle bellow, apparently furious. Harry sighed.

He was in the middle of writing a letter to Ron, Hermione and Ginny, thanking them for his wonderful birthday gift. He didn't really feel like finding out what his uncle wanted, but it would be better than to ignore him.

Contrary to what his uncle thought, Harry was not happy. Far from it, in fact. He was as depressed as he'd ever been, probably more so, the loss of his godfather weighing heavily on him. Being away from the only people that cared for him made it worse.

Wearily, he stood up and trudged out of his room. Down the steps, he thought he heard voices. Then he saw his aunt and uncle clustered together anxiously at the front door. Petunia was glaring at nothing in particular, an extremely sour look on her face.

The thought that perhaps the Order had sent someone for him, maybe as a birthday present, flitted through his head. He felt a moment of hope, and quickly finished his descent.

Then he heard what his uncle was saying, and his heart stopped.

"... est him for?"

A strange voice from his uncle's other side said imperiously, "Slander of the Minister, obstruction of justice, crimes against the Wizarding public, and... murder!"

Petunia shrieked, and tugged franticly on her husband's arm. Vernon turned to look at his nephew, a malicious gleam in his unfriendly eyes.

"_Freaks _here for you, boy," he whispered, grinning. "They say... you're under arrest."

Harry went cold all over.

Someone was there to _arrest him_? But... what? Why? He hadn't done anything... well, not that anyone that wanted to arrest him would _know _about, so... What had the other voice said? Something, something, something, and someth... murder!

He was being arrested for _murder?_

He took a step back, which afforded him just a glimpse of whoever was outside.

Aurors. A lot of Aurors.

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. Harry's mind was racing.

Dumbledore! He had to tell Dumbledore.

Turning his back on his family, he raced upstairs. The Auror in front noticed.

"Stop!" he barked, taking a half-step closer to the house, but stopping abruptly. Harry ignored him.

As he searched furiously for a blank sheet of parchment and a quill, Harry could hear shouting from downstairs. Why weren't they coming in? Why didn't they just... Harry paused as a thought occurred to him.

The wards!

Of course. The Aurors, come to arrest him, couldn't pass the wards, which meant they couldn't come in the house. So as long as he stayed in the house... He slowed down his search fractionally, feeling he had a bit of time. Haste made waste, after all.

Unless they thought to make the Dursley's bring him out, the Aurors couldn't get to him. And the Dursleys would never help a bunch of strange wizards. So there should be enough time for Dumbledore to get there.

But why were there Aurors here to arrest him, anyway? Arrest him!

A pounding of feet on the stairs, raised voices getting louder, spurred Harry's panic back up. The Dursleys wouldn't turn him over, no matter how much they hated him. They'd never. The Order wouldn't let them.

His door flew open, revealing Vernon, eyes dangerous.

(Where was the Order?)

Harry grabbed for his wand and quickly pointed it at his uncle. But for once the man was faster, lunging across the small room and knocking the length of wood out of his hand.

The Dursleys would never...

"Come on, boy," shouted Vernon, dragging a struggling Harry from the room, away from his wand, his only form of defense. "The freaks are waiting for you!"

(Where was the Order!)

He couldn't let them do this to him. He couldn't... This couldn't happen.

Harry struggled against the grasp his uncle had on him, getting nowhere. He was still trying to figure out how this could be happening. It seemed like a bad dream.

Three steps from the front door, there was a flash of light and Vernon was thrown up against a wall. Harry turned to go back upstairs. He couldn't be down there. He had to stay away from the Aurors, had to stay in the house. He needed his wand.

Where was the Order?

"_Petrificus Totalus!_"

Harry fell on his face.

"Bring him out here," Harry heard the front Auror -- who seemed to be in charge -- snap gruffly. There was a briefly shuffling noise from Harry's right, off where he thought his uncle was, and then silence.

"Bring him here!" the Auror demanded.

Uncle Vernon grunted. "I'm not touching him again -- you didn't tell me that light thing would happen. Get him yourself!"

"We cannot enter the house, we told you this, Dursley," the Auror sighed. "You have to bring him out to us."

There was a moment of silence. "Fine," Uncle Vernon snapped. Harry heard a sharp intake of breath and his aunt's feet, which he'd been staring at, moved a step closer to him almost convulsively.

"Vernon!" she hissed fearfully. "You can't! Remember-"

"I know!" Uncle Vernon growled. Petunia squeaked and backed up.

Harry felt arms, probably his uncle's, grab his shoulders and begin hauling him slowly toward the door. '_Put me down,_' he thought furiously, struggling against the Auror's Full Body Bind. '_Put me down, let me go, put me down, let me go, put me DOWN..._'

Suddenly, Vernon dropped Harry and bleated indignantly.

"What? What is it?" someone outside asked worriedly. Harry was dismayed at how close the voice sounded.

"I can't hold the freak," Vernon complained, sounding accusing. "And I'm not trying again."

"Don't worry," the Auror in charge said from almost directly above Harry, "you've brought him far enough." Someone's hand closed around Harry's ankle and tugged roughly.

As he slid out into the yard, Harry realized with relief that he could move again. He kicked in the direction of the hand holding him, trying to roll over at the same time.

"OW!"

Harry's heel connected squarely with the Auror's hand. Two of the nearest Aurors leapt forward immediately--

"Sir!"

Harry lunged blindly back toward the front door. He'd almost made it through--

"GET HIM!"

--one of the Aurors grabbed the back of his robes and yanked him halfway across the lawn, Harry fighting all the way.

Harry ended sprawled on his back, with somewhere near a dozen Aurors sitting, kneeling, standing on, or in some other way preventing him from moving, while the Auror in charge stalked over, glowering.

"Merlin's beard," Harry heard him muttering, "When Minister Fudge said it might be difficult, he sure _didn't _say that Potter was this -- Ah. Get out of that one, I'd like to see you try. You lot there, get away so I can see him."

"Sir," a female Auror whispered, clearing her throat softly. "Perhaps you'd better get his wand from him first?"

"Hm. Right you are then." A wand poked through a gape between two of the Aurors. "_Accio!_"

Absolutely nothing happened. Harry sat tensely; only bad things could come of these hostile Aurors getting hold of his wand.

"Hmph." The head Auror shouldered aside a couple of the others and glared down at Harry, wand still fixed on the grounded boy. "I'll try again. _ACCIO!_"

There was quite a bit of muttering from the surrounding Aurors. The one in charge looked highly displeased. Harry almost laughed.

"Maybe it's still in the house?" suggested the same female Auror weakly. The Auror in charge turned his glare on her, but acknowledged the suggestion.

"It's possible. I guess I'd better..." He pointed his wand at the house. "_Accio wand!_"

'_Don't come, don't come don't come don't come don'tcomedon'tcomedon't..._' Harry thought, eyes anxiously fixed on number four, like everyone else's.

After several minutes, when nothing happened, the Auror in charge huffed. "Ridiculous!" he exclaimed, lowering his wand. "What's the boy done with it?" Nobody said anything. "Oh well, get out that Portkey, Smythe."

For a moment, Harry was insanely relieved -- they hadn't gotten his wand! -- and then someone shoved a small stone into his hand, spoke a word he didn't catch, and he disappeared from Privet Drive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Dude, it's not _mine_.

**Author's Notes:** Um, I had fun with OC names this chapter. That's all I'm saying. (Well, and I'm sorry for the wait between chapters.) Don't forget to review, lovelies!

**o.o.o.o**

When the world came back, Harry found himself in a small, boring room. The ceiling and floor were dreary gray stone that made Harry's eyes hurt with their _coldness_. The walls probably were made of the same stone, but Harry couldn't see them. For grouped around him were even more Aurors than had been on the Dursleys' front lawn.

It was a very crowded room.

Almost all of them had their wands pointed at him. An imposing female Auror stepped forward, holding out her empty hand expectantly. Harry, and the Auror who'd given him the Portkey, just looked at her.

"Well?" she snapped, extending her hand even farther (Harry hadn't thought it would have been possible).

Harry blinked at her. So did his escort, asking blankly, "Huh?"

"Potter's wand!" The hand came out even farther. "You're to turn it over to me now."

"Don't have it," the Auror mumbled, embarrassed.

The female blanched. Her hand didn't waver at all, though. "What? The Minister made it very clear -- of the _utmost _importance -- you don't _have it_!"

"We couldn't find it!" Smythe protested defensively. "He didn't have it on him, and we can't go in the house. We Accio-ed it but it wasn't there either."

The female Auror still looked supremely put-out. "Then where is it?"

"Maybe he left it at Hogwarts?" someone from the crowd of Aurors suggested hesitantly.

A loud, obnoxious male just next to the other spoke up scornfully, "Potter never leaves his wand! The Minister was very clear, Potter _never leaves his wand_. Remember last year? When Potter --"

"Potter," Harry interrupted, glowering and trying to stand up, "is right here, thank you very much. What's going _on_?"

Most of the Aurors ignored him. Smythe allowed Harry to stand, but kept a firm hold on his wand arm, even though he didn't have his wand. Quite a few of the Aurors closest to him took hurried steps back.

But one, a young female with watery blond hair, actually came forward, smiling slightly.

The belligerent female with her hand out glared at the younger Auror. It didn't look as if the girl was breaking any rules, however, as no-one outright stopped her.

"Very well," snapped the Auror, finally withdrawing her arm. She was still refusing to acknowledge Harry's presence as a human being capable of rational thought process. "We'll just have to take as he is. But mark my words, this _is _going on my report." The other Aurors looked at each other uncomfortably, as she swept imperiously from the room.

"Right then, we'd better get a move on," Smythe muttered uneasily, eyeing the still swinging door. "Someone grab hold of his other arm, would you?"

The young blond stepped forward instantly. "Oh, I will," she said brightly, curling one hand loosely around Harry's upper arm. The other she slipped around Harry's wrist, smiling brightly.

Smythe shot her a sideways glance and almost smirked. "All right. Hold open that door on your way out, Bidge." The room was half-empty already, the Aurors filing out slowly.

The Auror Bidge, a squat, rather rotund little man with a large curling mustache, smiled slightly. Obligingly, he held the door open as Smythe and the blond pulled Harry through it, into an even more boring stone corridor. Then the little man fell in behind the strange trio. Harry felt a wandtip in the small of his back, and turning to look over his shoulder, he grunted in annoyance to see only Bidge's congenial grin. Bidge winked.

There were Aurors everywhere in this hall. Most of the ones to the right of the door Harry'd come through were just standing, wands out and staring warily down toward him. Those on the left were preceding slowly down the corridor, their backs to Harry. Harry recognized quite a few of them as having come from the room he was just in.

"Someone's really pulling out all the stops for this farce," Harry muttered, bad-tempered. Smythe shot him first a stern, then an amused look out of the corner of his eyes. The blond actually snickered. Harry turned his head to look at her, not having expected any kind of favorable response.

"Oh, Mr. Potter," she whispered, looking amused, "You have no idea how much most of these Aurors agree with you."

"But naturally," interjected Smythe quietly, "that's mostly because half of them are scared of you and don't want to admit it."

"Of course they don't," Bidge snapped jovially. "A scrawny little sixteen-year-old like this? Unthinkable for a grown Auror to be afraid of him!"

The blond -- Harry would really have to figure out her name -- snickered again. "Ah, Bidgy, that's so true."

"All the regular Hit Wizards are terrified, of course -- there's a reason we got saddled with it," Smythe supplied, smirking.

Frowning, Harry glanced around at the three of them, and then said in as quiet a voice as he could muster, "Are you lot supposed to be talking to me?"

"Probably not," replied Smythe, unconcerned. He smiled at Harry's confused expression. "You'll find that there are some of us that don't really care for Madame Tribble, or her orders, Mr. Potter."

The blond gave Harry's wrist a little squeeze. "Madame Tribble would be that officious bitch you met back in Arrival and Containment Room 3. The one after your wand?" she whispered teasingly. Bidge snorted, his wandtip momentarily leaving Harry's back, presumably as he laughed.

Harry blushed.

"I'm Auror Pennywesh," added the blond. She smiled brightly, squeezing his wrist again. "But you can call me Flora." Here she winked.

Harry blushed again.

"Pennywesh..." Smythe hissed, glaring at her. She snickered.

"Sorry, Ben. Sorry, Mr. Potter. I couldn't help myself," she explained unrepentantly. Harry mumbled something, not looking at her. Her smiled widened, "Dora was right, you _are _easy!"

Smythe rolled his eyes and rather roughly tugged his charge around a corner, dragging Pennywesh with him. Harry, though, turned to her, perplexed. "Huh?"

"Oh, that's right," she said, almost apologetically. "Dora's my best friend, she --"

"I believe you know her as Tonks," Smythe explained before Pennywesh could confuse him further. "She and Flora trained together. The two of them together are _impossible_."

Bidge chuckled behind them. "Aw, Smythe, you're only saying that because Tonks never lets you near Flora alone." Smythe glared over his shoulder at the round little man behind them.

"I'm the only one that calls her Dora," Pennywesh informed Harry, snickering. "And she and Ben _never _get along."

Feeling way out of his depth, Harry just looked at her.

"We get along," Smythe protested indignantly. "We just don't _agree _all the time."

"Try most of it," suggested Bidge, a chuckle in his voice.

Pennywesh shrugged a shoulder, as if the technicalities didn't concern her much at all. "Okay, okay," she said, still cheerful. "So sometimes they get along... sort of."

Smythe glared at her. "Not getting along is a word for Shacklebolt and Madame Tribble, not Dora and me."

"Ah, right."

"What?" Harry interrupted, trying to stare at all three of them at once. "Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"Yeah," Pennywesh confirmed, nodding. Her grin had disappeared. "We heard that you knew him. And _oh_, you should have _seen _him when he heard that you were being arrested and your little _group_ --" Here she paused, giving Harry a meaningful look, " -- _group _couldn't do anything about it. He was so furious, he barely managed to get us in position in time --"

"Ah, bloody -- Shh, Flora," Smythe suddenly hissed, urgent. After descending a staircase, they'd rounded a final corner and come upon a door which was obviously their destination. Aurors lined the walls all around the door, which was being held open by an especially stuffy-looking Auror -- it was the one who'd seemed to be in charge at Privet Drive.

Pennywesh's grip on Harry tightened. She nodded grimly. "Right. Mr. Potter," she instructed through her teeth, so low it was barely audible, "you're going to have to trust us on this, but do _not _speak if you can help it."

And then they were through the door, Bidge still behind them.

At first glance, the room was just as bare as Arrival and Containment Room 3, if significantly emptier. But then Harry noticed the chair planted directly in the middle of the cell, underneath an incredibly bright little ball of light. It was to this chair that the Aurors led him.

He almost completely missed the other chairs, in a row against the left wall, and the tables, against the right wall. Sitting in one of the chairs was one of Harry's _least _favorite people ever: Cornelius Fudge, current Minister of Magic.

Remembering all the trouble Fudge had caused with his refusal to believe that Voldemort had returned, as well as the grief he'd been put through at the hands of Fudge's pet associate Umbridge, Harry growled unthinkingly. For some reason, this caused Fudge's bodyguards -- two of the largest men Harry'd ever seen -- to take involuntary steps backward. The Minister almost shifted uncomfortably.

Smythe and Pennywesh held firmly to his arms, the blond shooting him a small warning glance, while Bidge poked his back anxiously with his wand.

"Ah," exclaimed the Minister, a very self-satisfied expression covering his face. He stood up and marched toward Harry. The two large Aurors came with him. Harry had to actively stop himself from sneering. "There. We meet again Mr. Potter."

Also in the room was Madame Tribble -- whose name Harry secretly thought sounded like a kind of doggie chow; in fact, he wondered if that wasn't the kind Aunt Marge's dog Ripper preferred -- and, as he stepped in and closed the door, the officious Auror who'd performed Harry's initial arrest.

Though he was sitting now, the three Aurors who'd brought him in made absolutely no moves to leave. Because Harry wasn't sure what was going on, and they seemed friendly, Harry was glad they'd stayed. Also, it seemed to annoy Fudge, who kept glancing from them to Madame Tribble, almost as if he expected her to order them out of the room. And, despite looking at the three Aurors with a rather sour expression, Madame Tribble said nothing.

Looking at Fudge's smug face, Harry couldn't help himself. "What's the meaning of this?" he snarled, directing his question not to Minister Fudge, but the Auror Madame Tribble.

There was a noise from Harry's side, and then Harry's back screamed with sudden fire. Wincing, he closed his mouth resolutely. Not even Fudge was thick enough to not realize what a slight that was. His eyes grew wide and angry. Madame Tribble snorted like a furious horse.

"Potter?" the Minister asked scathingly, more as a formality than from any real need for conformation. Still feeling the warning burn along his back from Bidge's wand, Harry only grunted. "You are no doubt aware, Potter, why you have been arrested. This questioning is --"

"Actually, I have no idea why I was arrested," snapped Harry, but instantly regretted it when the burn on his back again seared angrily. Really, weren't these three Aurors supposed to be on his side? He was starting to doubt it.

Apparently amused, Fudge shared a glance with Madame Tribble that seemed to say 'didn't I tell you this would happen?' He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, Potter, this questioning is merely to ascertain whether you will admit to your crimes."

Harry stared at him incredulously. Fudge made it sound like they'd already proven he was guilty. This was ridiculous, absurd. Utterly unbelievable. "Admit to my -- You mean you want me to _confess_!"

Harry didn't feel a burn, so he glanced quickly around at the Aurors. The faces of Smythe, Pennywesh and Bidge were all ostensibly, studiously blank, but he thought he could see a furious gleam in each of their eyes. They were all glaring at Fudge through their cold, stony faces. This made Harry feel slightly better about things, but not much.

"Precisely," declared Fudge, beaming smugly.

"Mr. Potter," said Madame Tribble, "The first instance we wish to address is that of the 'Chamber of Secrets'..."

Harry's eyes got wide and he tensed up.

"I understand that you let a monster--"

"It was a basilisk, and I didn't--"

" --A basilisk loose on your fellow students." Madame Tribble stared at him shrewdly. "It is a fact that you are a Parselmouth, are you not?"

Harry was beginning to realize what was going on. He'd been accused of crimes that he wasn't going to be given the chance to defend himself of -- if this fiasco was going to get a trial, they'd already had it, without him. They'd done it to his godfather, and now they were doing it to him.

He didn't think they'd get away with it, but they were trying.

(Where was the Order?)

He hated Cornelius Fudge.

"Well, uh, yes, I am," Harry agreed reluctantly, but seeing the triumphant expressions on their faces, hurried to add, "But like I said, I didn't set the basilisk free! I _killed_ it!"

Vaguely put-out, Fudge pressed, switching tactics easily, "Ah, well then, who _did_? I assume you know, having had to defeat their creature, as a potential threat to your future power."

_Ginny_, Harry thought, going pale. _If I tell them, they'll do this to her, too. **I will not incriminate Ginny!**_

"Does it matter?" he asked evasively. He knew that they could take his refusal to provide them with another culprit as evidence that he was lying about not having done it, but he would rather get himself in trouble than do that to any of the Weasleys.

Madame Tribble looked down her nose at him, whispering something to Fudge. Whatever it was she said, it seemed to please Fudge, for he puffed his chest out just a bit, looking smug.

"Very well," the Minister declared. "Moving on, there is the matter of you assisting an escaped convict to evade Ministry personal..."

Realizing that they must mean Sirius, Harry groaned resignedly and prepared himself to defend the dead godfather who was the cause for most of his recent depression.

This wasn't going to be fun.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, at all, even a little bit. Pout.

**Author's Note:** It's short, yes, but it's something. Sorry this took so long. Please review?

**o.o.o.o**

Several hours later, a thoroughly disgruntled Harry was being led back to Arrival and Containment Room 3 by a small group of stony Aurors. Pennywesh, who'd run off somewhere as soon as the Minister and Madame Tibbles had finished with Harry, hadn't reappeared, so Smythe and Bidge had been joined by none other than Kingsley Shacklebolt. The tall black Auror looked livid, but Harry barely noticed, caught up in his own anger.

Fudge's arrogance had reached extraordinary levels. The list of charges leveled against Harry James Potter by the Minister (on behalf of the Ministry and the Wizarding Public of Great Britain) was some seventy items in total. Of these, only a small number were based in fact, and none (as the events really stood) were actionable. At least not in the minds of Harry, the Aurors accompanying him, and -- according to Shacklebolt -- the Order of the Phoenix. Most distressing of all the bogus charges, however, was the last; _murder._

Specifically, the murders of Cedric Diggory and Quirinus Quirrell.

As one (or rather, several) of the other charges had been about willfully deceiving wizarding public for his own sake, Harry had thought it best not to keep insisting that both of those deaths had been caused by Voldemort. The first time he'd said it, in connection with Professor Quirrell, Fudge and Tibbles had shared one of their looks, and then...

"But, Mr. Potter, I thought you said that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named didn't return until _last _year. How could he have --" started Madame Tibbles smugly.

"He was still around," Harry insisted rather desperately now, for they'd been over much the same subject several times already, "he just didn't have a _body_. His spirit was possessing Professor Quirrell."

Minister Fudge snorted disbelieving. "Possessing, you say?"

A sinking feeling in his gut, Harry nodded. "That's right, possessing."

"You-Know-Who," Madame Tibbles directed at him patronizingly, "is dead, boy." And then to Fudge, "No doubt he must have been hallucinating, Cornelius."

"Quite," agreed Fudge easily. "Or else he had Quirinus deluded as well -- pity, that; brilliant man, you know."

"Yes, I met him just after he got out of school. _Such _potential. Typical of Potter, of course, to go for some one like that."

"Well, that's why he's got Granger under his thumb, too. Must have gotten to her young enough to make a difference--"

The increasingly painful grip of the Aurors standing around him was the only thing that kept Harry in his chair once they started talking about his friends. It didn't stop there, either, and the stuff relating to Sirius was such that Harry would rather not remember it. But then, the enter interview was like that.

Now that it was over, Harry wasn't sure what was happening next. He also wasn't sure he wanted to know. Whatever it was, he suspected the Aurors with him knew. And they looked anything but happy, talking to each other over Harry's head.

One of them mentioned Minister Fudge.

"Damn the man," Bidge was muttering to Smythe, who was fiercely grunting his agreement.

"Don't," snapped Shacklebolt, who appeared even more incensed than before.

"But, sir--" began Bidge, showing noticeably more respect than he had when referring to Fudge.

"He's the Minister." Shacklebolt paused a moment and stared levelly at the other two Aurors with him. He held each of their gazes in turn, as if making sure they understood some secret code he was speaking. "We are still on Ministry property."

Then he whirled around and led them onward.

Bidge and Smythe were silent the rest of the way, until they reached the door of Arrival and Containment Room 3, where Smythe hesitantly spoke up, "Sir, what's going to happen now? Surely... you... won't let them --"

"I don't know," responded Shacklebolt, looking solemn. "I have to talk to Dumbeldore before I _will _know. That shouldn't be long. Come to think of it, he should have been here by now."

Smythe glanced almost nervously at Harry. "Dumbledore's _late_, sir?"

"The Headmaster is never late," whispered Bidge to himself. All of the Aurors looked uneasy at this. Harry didn't know how to feel; he still wasn't that happy with Dumbledore after the end of the previous term, but that aside, there was no-one he'd rather see just then.

All of a sudden there was a commotion around the corner, and Pennywesh came running into view at the end of the corridor. A young woman with bright green hair was hurrying to keep up with her.

"Pennywesh!" cried Shacklebolt and Smythe at the same time, as the blond and her companion skidded to a stop in front of them.

"Bad news," gasped Pennywesh, breathing heavily. She nodded to the other woman, Tonks, to explain.

Tonks cleared her throat. Pointedly not looking at Harry, she informed them all, "Dumbledore's not coming." Everyone stared.

Harry was the first to recover, feeling some of his anger at the Headmaster bubbling back up again. "What? He's not _coming_?" Tonks winced, apparently knowing how he must be feeling. Because Harry's outburst summed up how they were all feeling, none of the Aurors added anything, but all waited for Tonks to elaborate.

But it was Pennywesh that jumped in, looking soothingly at Harry, with an even more irritating piece of information, "It's the Minister, sir. He won't let Dumbledore anywhere near this place. The whole Ministry's off-limits to anyone connected with Potter here."

There was a moment of heavy silence.

Under his breath, Shacklebolt swore savagely. He took off at a dead run down the way Pennywesh and Tonks had just come.

"What're you doing here, Tonks?" Harry asked, to lift the silence.

"She works here," said Pennywesh, a teasing note in her voice that couldn't quite cover her anxiety. Then she turned away from Harry to hiss at Smythe, "Is he supposed to be standing out here in the corridor?"

Smythe shook his head quickly. He and Bidge immediately ushered Harry back into the, now completely empty, Arrival and Containment Room 3. Pennywesh followed, but Tonks remained in the doorway.

"What if Dumbledore really can't do anything for Harry?" Tonks asked the other three Aurors quietly. She still hadn't looked directly at Harry since she'd gotten there.

"Fudge wants him sent to Azkaban," Bidge stated matter-of-factly. There was no expression on his face. Tonks gasped.

The bottom had dropped out of Harry's stomach a long time ago, but now it came back with a vengeance, just to make his queasiness that much worse.

_Azkaban?_

"He can't do that!" Tonks burst out, her hair fading to a dull, dishwater color remarkably similar to that of Pennywesh's. "Harry's still a minor, Fudge _can't _send him to Azkaban."

"Yes, he can," came Shacklebolt's voice from the corridor. "Fudge can, and he's going to."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** No, I do not own Harry Potter! Er, or the rights to his autobiography.

**Author's Note:** This was faster than my last update. And longer, as well (I think, anyway). Please don't forget to review! And to remind you...

review responses deleted

**o.o.o.o**

Into the silence, the tall black Auror added, "He didn't want to have you killed, because he's too much of a coward for it. And he couldn't have you Kissed, because there's already been a Minister that sentence a minor to that -- a 13-year-old boy, if I'm correct."

"But that boy deserved it," put in Bidge, and Harry couldn't tell whether it was to him or Shacklebolt. "He killed his entire family... in front of witnesses... and enjoyed it."

Fists clenched so hard that his fingernails were biting into his palms and beginning to bleed, Harry stared at Shacklebolt for a moment. Then, in a cold, quiet, furious voice, he said, "I am not going to Azkaban."

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked almost as angry as Harry, but also a little scared, as he tried to hold his eyes on Harry's face. "No, not if we can help it, you're not. But I have to admit--" more quietly, "Dumbledore's been sort of run up a wall here. He's got no jurisdiction inside the Ministry, and all the higher-ups are behind Fudge in this. I don't know if he's bribed them or threatened them, or what, but nobody's stepping out to help us."

"But... but... There are _laws_, Kingsley!" exclaimed Pennywesh, running her hands through her hair. It was beginning to frizz out and look like a pale gold halo.

"Well, he's ignoring them." Kingsley grimaced, stepping into the room. He glanced at Harry worriedly. "How are you, Potter?"

A little stream of blood was beginning to drip from Harry's hands onto the floor. He ignored it. "I am not going to Azkaban," he repeated in a wickedly firm voice.

Tonks, who had not moved since Shacklebolt had announced the fate that Minister Fudge had in store for Harry, mouthed wordlessly for a second, her eyes glazed with horror. Then she quietly spoke what was definitely the most tactless thing possible --

"Sirius would _kill _Fudge for this."

Smythe, Bidge and Pennywesh missed the significance of this statement, but Shacklebolt's eyes widened perceptibly, darting to Harry. In the back of his mind, Harry wondered whether the whole Order had heard about his little temper tantrum in Dumbledore's office at the end of term.

His face suddenly became expressionless. He had to swallow to stave off the intense feeling of loss that swamped him.

Tonks, too, realized what she'd said. For the first time, she fixed her eyes on Harry. "Oh... Harry... I didn't..." she whispered, trailing off. She covered her mouth with one hand, and with a sob, moved across the room to pull Harry into a painfully tight hug. "I'm sorry."

The black-haired boy relaxed into the embrace, briefly giving in to a surge of grief such as he hadn't felt since the night he'd watched his godfather fall through the veil. But he remembered where he was too quickly, and shook the Auror off. He had to pause and wipe his face before he could look at any of the other occupants of the room.

Pennywesh had turned politely around, and seemed to be sniffling into her hand. Smythe was looking between them curiously.

"What was that about?" Bidge asked bravely. Shacklebolt glared at him, and he shut up.

"What happens now?" Harry's voice was flat.

"Well, we're really not supposed to be in here with you. Pennywesh and Bidge will be posted outside the door, but the rest of us need to leave." When he was speaking, Shacklebolt put a strong hand on Harry's shoulder. "We are going to be trying to get you out, Harry. Nobody wants to leave you in here."

"Except the only people _doing_ anything," Harry mumbled uncharitably, as they all... left him in there.

_Isn't _that_ ironic. Could things get much worse?_

He was about to retreat sullenly into one of the corners, when he finally noticed the blood on his hands. He raised his left and held it in front of his face, still fisted, and blinked at it. He glanced at the floor, and noticed the blood there, as well.

He grunted, annoyed.

_Oh joy, I'm bleeding. Fantastic._

In a fit of sudden rage, he stormed over to the nearest wall and slammed his right fist against it as hard as he could. The stone he'd hit shattered with a loud crack, and all of those around it receded, which formed a large dent in the otherwise smooth wall. Splintering agony lanced through his hand and up his arm, liquid warmth covered his fingers entirely. This only made his anger worse, and he quickly struck the wall again. The already damaged rock fell apart completely, covering Harry in dust. Several of the others toppled from the wall and landed on the other side; in the corridor.

The pain in Harry's arm and hand exploded even more painfully -- so please, couldn't his other hand stop hurting, _please? _-- and Harry was sure he'd broken _at least _every single bone from his right elbow down. And there was blood, _all _over his hand. All over both his hands, actually, though he hadn't punched anything with his left, and it didn't hurt in the slightest. He stared, and tentatively opened his left hand, spreading the fingers as far as he could. He couldn't see anything for all the blood there was, so he wiped it on his already soiled trousers. He gasped. There wasn't a mark _anywhere_ on his hand. But there had been. He knew there had been. _Knew _there had been.

(Hadn't there?)

The door burst open and what looked like half a dozen people in bright red robes were suddenly in the room with him.

**o.o.o.o**

Pennywesh, Bidge and Tonks were all standing just outside the door to Arrival and Containment Room 3, where Bidge was trying to ignore the females beside him and still do his job at least semi-properly. Tonks was crying brokenly on Pennywesh's shoulder and talking quickly in a desperate voice that Bidge was very glad he couldn't understand. For her part, Pennywesh looked sympathetic and sad and scared all at the same time. That, Bidge _could_ understand, which was why he let them alone, until they were in a position to have a conversation with such a normal individual as himself.

Several minutes after they'd returned to the hallway, Tonks was barely composing herself. Bidge prepared to ask, yet again, what it was she said that had upset Harry so badly.

But Bidge didn't get to do any such thing. For just as he opened his mouth, the Minister came marching down the hall, a veritable crowd of people with him. All of them were well-dressed, highly-connected, and extremely important. Bidge noticed several witches and wizards sporting the crests of some of the most prominent anti-Muggle families. Among them was Lucius Malfoy, looking even more arrogant than normal, and there was his wife, too, and -- what in Merlin's Name was their son doing there? He couldn't have been older than Potter!

There were too many to be able to recognize all of them, but if one looked closely, you could tell that not all of them were as happy as they were pretending to be. Along in the back was Shacklebolt, beginning to look harassed and just the tiniest bit tired, with a worryingly worried expression on his face.

The instant Minister Fudge and his followers came into view, Tonks and Pennywesh paled. The crowd was drawing steadily closer, and Tonks -- who had no viable reason for being there and would surely get in trouble just on that -- took a step to one side, so that she was right in front of the door. Her eyes were too wide, and she looked more nervous than sure of herself. Bidge realized what she was planning to do, and gasped in horror.

If she tried to stop the Minister now, just by standing in front of that door, then there was no doubt in his mind that she'd wind up with a cell in Azkaban right across from Harry's.

Pennywesh had gone even paler, which Bidge took to mean that she'd also picked up on the meaning behind Tonks' action. Fudge and the others were just a few yards away.

_This is a disaster_.

Neither Tonks, nor Bidge, nor Pennywesh had a chance to do anything about _anything_, however. When Fudge was merely a couple of strides from them, there was a loud, echoing cracking noise. The walls shook. Several stones began to break.

A split-seconded later it sounded again, and what seemed like half the wall fell out of a wall, the one on the opposite side of Harry's door as Fudge. This was followed by a hair-raising feeling of foreboding.

"Open that door!" shrieked the Minister, looking outraged. "Potter is trying to escape!" But the three Aurors had started moving before he'd even opened his mouth, and already had the door open.

They burst into the room, ignoring the strangers at their backs, to find an angry-looking Harry standing by a large hole in the wall, staring awestruck at his bloody left hand. He was covered in dust, holding his even bloodier right hand cradled close against his chest.

"Good God," gasped Tonks. She stumbled backwards into whoever was behind her. The man didn't seem to mind, being just as shocked himself.

"Potter!" The little Minister was fuming. "This is appalling! Willful destruction of Ministry property! One would think you'd done enough, but oh no--" The Minister rounded on the closest ranking-Auror he could find, which turned out to be Madame Tibbles. "Did I not make myself clear that I wanted his wand taken from him and snapped?"

"But, Minister," interrupted the man who Tonks had bumped into, "he hasn't got a wand. He appears to have done nothing more than punch the wall. Minister."

Fudge only snorted disbelievingly and gave the man a scathing look. "Don't be a ninny. Put a hole that size in a magically enforced stone wall, without a wand? Ridiculous," he spat, focusing on the only Aurors in the room. His hulking bodyguards seemed to have been let off duty. He pointed at Harry. "Search him. And this time _I want his wand_."

At this exact moment, Harry turned his head and locked eyes with Bidge. He appeared to have just noticed that there were other people in the room. His left hand fell limply to his side as he blinked once... twice... A third time...

Then he was on his knees clutching his forehead.

"Oh. Not... now," he moaned, and his glazed green eyes rolled up into his head. He fell back against the filthy floor. And _then _he screamed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** No. 'Tisn't mine.

**Author's Note:** Yay, whee, okay, I have nothing to say this chapter. Except something very vague about it having been my brother's birthday recently so excuse the horrendously short length of this chapter and review please because I love you? Er. Yeah. (Halo?)

review responses deleted

**o.o.o.o**

Tonks choked out something that sounded like an oath. She stumbled back again, but this time when she ran into the richly dressed man, she fell. Fighting back the strong desire to remain on the ground, which felt a little more stable than her world at present, Tonks started to stand. In a gesture that seemed reflexive, the man behind her bent down to help her.

"Look!" shrieked Fudge angrily, trying but failing to pitch his voice loud enough to drown out Harry's single, agonized, continuous scream. "It's another of his _attacks_! Potter is attempting to subvert our minds!"

A few of the people tore their eyes away from where they were staring in horror at Harry's prone figure, to look at Fudge, disbelieving.

"Subvert our minds?" a woman near Fudge repeated a bit timidly. "The boy's in pain, Minister, sir."

"It's an _act_, can't you see?" Fudge insisted shrilly. He yanked his bowler hat from his head and gestured with it toward Madame Tibbles. "Tribble! Have him searched, damn it, woman!"

Harry hadn't stopped or paused in his scream. The unnatural sound went on, long and strong as it had been when he started, filling the room.

"Right away, Minister," agreed Tibbles, nodding her large head officiously. "You--" she pointed at Bidge, "--And, you--" she pointed also at Tonks. "Search him! And _get _his wand this time!" Then she rounded on Pennywesh and ordered, "Go and fetch another dozen Aurors. Now!"

Pennywesh went. But unseen by Fudge or Madame Tibbles, she was stopped in the doorway by Shacklebolt, who held her back only long enough to send Smythe to accompany her. The door remained open behind them, but there was no-one in the hall to keep out -- everyone was in the little room with Harry.

Without really wanting too, Tonks and Bidge made their way over to Harry, where they spent several minutes praying he'd stop screaming, while making a large show of patting him down and searching his pockets.

When Tonks touched Harry's right hand, moving over it gently, as if checking to make sure he wasn't holding anything, she had to refrain from screaming -- it felt to her as if everything was broken to pieces. His wrist, when she inspected that, felt much the same. She didn't have time to call Bidge's attention to it, for the Minister was forcing Tibbles to call them back. Bidge went right away, but Tonks merely crept away to one side.

Several men from the crowd, including the one that she'd bumped into quite a bit, surreptitiously spread in her direction, and she found herself surrounded. She barely registered hands on her shoulders; she was still crouched on the ground. Glancing at their faces, she found they looked familiar, and friendly, but she couldn't place them, and didn't feel like trying. Her attention belonged on Harry, so she turned it back.

Minister Fudge was busy -- around yelling at everyone for not having Harry's wand -- giving a nonsense speech about how fortunate they were to have the 16-year-old firmly in Ministry custody. All of his fancy, outside-supporters were nodding and agreeing just as they were supposed to, and none of them looked the slightest bit concerned that Harry hadn't even had a _trial_, and yet the _Minister of Magic _was two steps away from sending him to Azkaban.

The Malfoys had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and Draco had taken an eager step ahead of even them. He was the closest to Harry as the other boy stopped screaming and slowly returned to consciousness.

His eyes fluttered open and he gave a low groan. Glancing around him, he grimaced, and struggled into a sitting position, using the broken wall as a support. He coughed blood onto the back of his hand, shook his head as if to clear it.

"Well, wasn't that interesting," he muttered, blinking several times and wincing when he spotted all the people in the room with him. He seemed to find Draco Malfoy's white-blond hair particularly bothersome.

"Potter!" The Minister was furious. "What have you done with your wand! Where is it?"

"I don't have it," answered Harry rather unsteadily. His eyes had focused enough for him to glare intensely at Fudge. "Haven't since your people abducted me."

"We did not--" exclaimed one of the new Aurors that had entered the room before Harry'd awakened. The man didn't look as if he'd been told what Harry had done before passing out.

"Enough!" Madame Tibbles cut him off superiorly. "Potter is aware that we didn't, he's just trying to cause a scene."

"Yes, Madame Tribble," the Auror muttered sullenly, shooting Harry a hateful look, which Harry ignored. Tibbles looked happy enough, though.

"Oh... _Fine_." Fudge glowered most unpleasantly around at everyone. His shifty eyes settled on Harry, and his eyebrows lowered even more, deepening his scowl. "You'll just have to take him now and we'll secure his wand later, I suppose. This -- You're _sure _he doesn't have his wand?"

"Quite sure, Minister," Bidge replied in an almost respectful tone. Tonks remained silent, watching the way Harry was rubbing his head, as if it ached... rubbing it with _both hands_.

"All right, all right," sighed the Minister quite bitterly, for someone who was getting his way. He nodded at Madame Tibbles and the Aurors. "Get him out of here, then."

"Harry!" cried Tonks softly, struggling against the hands holding her. Bidge had no idea what was going through her head, what she thought she could do.

"Minister Fudge," Draco Malfoy called quickly, as the man was about to send the Aurors -- and Harry -- away. Fudge turned courteously to the Malfoy scion, bowler hat twirling in his hands. Glancing once at his father, Draco inquired, "Might I... have a word with Potter, before he's taken away? We go to school together, you know, and..." Here the blond boy seemed to run out of steam.

Lucius narrowed his eyes curiously at his son, but remained silent, adding or retracting nothing from his son's request. Clearly this wasn't something they'd discussed.

Harry was crouched shakily on the floor, recovering from whatever it was he'd gone through in his vision. Despite the blood, neither of his hands seemed to be bothering him anymore. He glared at Draco, and opened his mouth to protest.

"Shut up, Potter," Tonks thought she heard Malfoy hiss, "Think of the damn Weasel and shut up."

He didn't close his mouth, but Harry gaped silently at the blond, as if he'd been slapped and hadn't seen it coming. It shut him up, though.

"Oh, of... of course," mumbled the Minister, looking a little ruffled. "Of course. Just a minute, mind, but..."

"Alone."

Fudge blinked at him. "Yes, of course, Master Malfoy, but..."

"Thank you, Minister Fudge," Draco murmured, inclining his head. His parents were both watching him, Narcissa curiously and Lucius with a strange expression of pleased disapproval on his face. Still, neither one interfered with their son's actions.

The Minister managed to fluster his way out of the room, and before they really knew what was happening, pretty much everyone else was outside in the corridor as well. When Lucius closed the door behind himself, Draco and Harry were the only two in the room.

Somehow, someone had repaired the hole in the wall, at least temporarily. Harry only just noticed it when he was looking for something to pay attention to other than Draco.

"Didn't think they'd let me alone with you," whispered the blond wonderingly. "At least you didn't go and ruin anything with your angry snuffling. You were close for a second there, but you didn't."

"What do you want?" Harry snarled, struggling to rise from the floor.

"You didn't do any of those things they're accusing you of, did you?" demanded Draco, watching Harry with a peculiar sort of nervous expression on his face.

Snorting angrily, Harry snapped, "Not that it matters to you any, but no, I didn't do any of it."

"I figured," returned the other boy with a nod. After a pause, Draco cleared his throat. "I... this is way too much like something the Weasel would do, but... I have your wand, Potter."

Harry could do nothing but stare, as the tall boy reached into his robes and removed a long, thin piece of wood that was indeed his wand. Draco looked rather sheepish.

"When I heard what was happening, and then that you didn't have your wand, well, I snuck over to those Muggles' you live with, and filched it."

Harry kept staring. "Why are you doing this?"

"I've been... talking to some people this summer." Draco looked around cautiously, as if making sure that no-one but Harry could hear him. "They said a few things that... I finally thought were worth listening to."

"Who--" began Harry, reaching out with grasping fingers and taking his wand from the offering Slytherin.

But Draco simply turned and swept to the door, calling over his shoulder just before he left, "Don't let them know you have that."

Unsure whether he could trust Draco, Harry nonetheless hid the wand in one of his trouser pockets, before any of the Aurors saw it.

"You're done, then?" he heard the Minister's voice from the corridor. Draco must have replied, but Harry didn't notice it, and the next thing he knew, the room was filled with unfriendly Aurors once again.

"How're we doing this?" someone in the front asked, eyeing Harry warily. "I'm not touching him."

Harry made a dismissive noise and began to stand up. It looked rather painful. He glared at his legs, and put both hands on the wall to support himself. None of the Aurors in the room moved to help him; he idly wondered what had happened to Tonks, Pennywesh, Bidge and Smythe. And Shacklebolt too, really. He couldn't see any of them.

"We're taking him down to Departure, first, is what we're doing," another explained, pointing her wand at Harry. The others all followed suit, and before Harry knew it he had... quite a lot of wands point at him.

Which didn't really seem to bother him, for some reason.

He looked around calmly, and in a voice that wouldn't have been out of place at a fancy dress ball for Ministry officials, said, "Well? Are we going, then?"

Just like that.

Wide-eyed Aurors with trembling wands more followed, than led Harry out of the room. As soon as they reached the corridor, though, they had to at least pretend to have some control over the situation, so they closed ranks around Harry. He still managed to give the Minister an angry sort of stare, though, which seemed to make the man uncomfortable.

Most of the other people in the hall were looking very smug and pleased with themselves, none more so than Lucius Malfoy. Which was probably because _he _should still have been in Azkaban, himself, but had somehow managed to sweet-talk Fudge into letting him out.

Harry actually thought that might have had a lot to do with what was happening to him just then.

As they took him away, Harry thought he saw Tonks picking up a piece of the wall that he'd, er, killed. It didn't seem important, though -- it was just a wall, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** JKR owns it all... except the plot, which is mine, so don't take it... duh... but, er, yeah, all the characters you recognize are definitely JKR's. So there.

**Author's Note:** Wheeee! I'm mildly sleep deprived at the moment, running on caffeine or else I wouldn't be up just now. Well, that's not true, since I wouldn't allow myself to sleep until I'd posted this chapter, in any case, as it's already much later than I wanted to have it out by. If there are any glaring mistakes I blame myself completely and will fix them in the morning when I am actually COHERENT. And I'm rambling and not making sense. Fwee. And last chapter I had more reviews than any before it! Hehe.

review responses deleted

**o.o.o.o**

Voldemort knew about the scheming of the Minister -- he should, considering he'd had one of his servants put the idea in the man's head in the first place -- he knew, and was deeply amused.

So he decided that maybe he'd make things just a bit worse for Potter. He sent young Harry a vision. Or, he tried to. He got no further than the standard, taunting greeting.

"Glad to see me, Potter?" he sneered. He could sense the pain Potter was already feeling -- through the ache in his own hands.

Harry did not seem pleased by the intrusion. Voldemort felt a wave of anger, and the aching of his right arm blossomed into agony. "Oh, not now," snapped Harry, as Voldemort's hands started bleeding.

The wand Voldemort had been holding on one of his less loyal servants, poised for the Cruciatus (to torment Potter further), suddenly went off. But the phantom _Crucio _that should have gone to the boy, did not. It went to Voldemort himself.

The scream Harry loosed hadn't been his own; it had been the Dark Lord's, released for the host by the mind inside it.

Harry hadn't simply managed to repel this attack on his mind, but had _turned it around_.

Anything he did with intent to hurt Harry, or anyone else, backfired tremendously. He spent a dozen and a half minutes trying to regain something that he hadn't yet realized he'd never had to begin with: control of the situation.

Then Harry spoke inside Voldemort's mind, "Sod off, Tom. I haven't got time for you at the moment." And Harry was gone.

The Dark Lord looked around, only to see that he was surrounded by a large group of his followers. All of them were staring at him uncertainly.

"What?" he demanded, unintentionally spitting blood on the nearest of the Death Eaters.

"Are you all right, my lord?" the individual asked, extremely cautious.

"Why would I not be?" Glowering, Voldemort wiped his mouth on the edge of his sleeve, before realizing that it was covered in blood, as well. And his wand hand was completely wrecked. (He'd have to get Severus to make him a potion for that, damn it.)

The Death Eater swallowed audibly, and it was one of his fellows that answered, "You were screaming, my lord."

"It was the boy's scream!" lied Voldemort, pounding his fist into the armrest of his chair. A lance of pain up to his shoulder let him know the action had been a mistake. He covered his grimace with a scowl. "The boy's, not my own!"

"... Of course, my lord," the crowd of Death Eaters murmured in unison.

It didn't sound like any of them believed him. They were worried, he could tell; they were scared, because they had reason to doubt their master's power, for the first time.

Voldemort, understandably, was pissed off.

**o.o.o.o**

Harry hadn't intended to let himself be taken to Azkaban, and he still didn't want to. But he had seen something in Voldemort's mind -- something he hoped Voldemort didn't realize he'd seen.

As the first act in his new campaign of terror, Voldemort was planning to attack Azkaban. He intended to claim the dementors as his servants once and for all, set free those of the inmates he had use for, and kill all anyone else there... especially anyone who got in the way. He didn't seem to be aware that Harry was being sent to person there.

And that, Harry felt, was an incredible advantage.

Which was why he was suddenly cooperating with the Ministry, being easy and agreeable as you please, just going along and doing what he was told. He had a feeling that his complacency was getting on the nerves of the Aurors around him. Or quite a few of them, anyway; the ones it wasn't scaring. But he had something of a plan now, or at least the suggestion of one, and he felt he had to go through with it.

The weight of his wand in his pocket, causing a slight drag on that leg of his trousers, was reassuring. It gave him a sort of confidence that the comfort of familiar faces like Tonks and Shacklebolt, hadn't been able to provide. That was how he knew he could carry off his plan, if only he could figure out the rest of it, since he only had the beginning so far.

"We're going to turn right a few doors along," one of the Aurors informed him snappishly. Harry had been far from ideal as prisoners went; he acted too much like everything was _his _idea, which was highly unsettling.

Harry shrugged, smiled a little from one corner of his mouth, looked a little more confident than anyone else would have liked. "Thanks."

An Auror behind Harry sneered unpleasantly at the back of his head, clearly unhappy with the manners of the young man she was helping escort. There was no way Harry could have known.

But a second later Harry turned right around as he walked, going backwards. He caught the eyes of all the Aurors trailing him, and though his eyes never seemed to move at all, they all could have swore at the same time that he was looking straight at _them_.

"This is very kind of all of you," he said, the sweetness of his smile and the outright pleasantness of his tone a mockery of the finest, most subtle kind. The Aurors didn't catch it.

"... the hell? This guy is _crazy_," exclaimed one Auror, young and -- it seemed -- male. His black hair was spiked messily and his sea-green eyes glared at the world. Harry felt almost as if he was looking at a skewed image of himself, and wondered absently if the Auror realized how ironic his appearance was. Probably not.

"Yeah," agreed another, nodding with disgust. "The Minister was right about him, after all." He looked familiar, and seemed vaguely disappointed. "Come on, we're wasting time."

**o.o.o.o**

The moment he reached the isle on which Azkaban Prison sat, Harry realised he'd made a terrible mistake.

In all the calculations he'd made for the plan that was now almost fully formed inside his head, Harry had completely left out the _dementors_. But when he got there, he had to face the terrifying reality that they affected him worse than they ever had before. He wasn't even inside, there wasn't even a dementor in sight, and all ready he could sense them, feel the cold, hear the voice... _voices_.

Two memories warred with his mind -- one he couldn't remember, one he wished he could forget.

Lily Potter's screaming, pleading voice was repeatedly drowned out by the almost-silence that had accompanied the death of Sirius Black. The very fact that he couldn't decide which was worse meant they both kept coming back. This was a kind of torment Harry had never been able to bear well.

Harry fell to his knees, a soundless wail ripped from his throat, stealing breath he could not spare. Rocks shattered around them and the Aurors backed away in fright.

With a barely-thought plea for forgiveness from something he wasn't sure of, Harry allowed himself to succumb to the darkness waiting for him. He'd rather suffer anything than being forced to witness their deaths again and again.

**o.o.o.o**

You couldn't Apparate, or perform most kinds of magic on the Isle. When the Aurors succeded in dragging Harry all the way to the prison gates, where the dementors happily took over, most of them immediately Portkeyed back to the Ministry. Two hung back, standing near the gates. They were the friends who had confronted Harry back before they'd reached Departure.

The shorter, black-haired one looked around and, seeing no one watching, slowly morphed into the recognizable figure of Nymphadora Tonks. She shook her head as if to clear it, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Well," Tonks murmured. She sighed and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small, ordinary looking pebble. This she dropped, right up against the wall of the prison, with what might have been a whispered prayer -- or promise.

The man next to her sent her a curious look, while discarding his 'Auror' robes. He neatly folded and balanced them on the crook of his arm. Very softly, he inquired, "So, that's what we're doing this for, then? That piddling little rock?"

Tonks snorted. "That piddling little rock could mean things you never imagined, if what Dumbledore says is true," she snapped, regarding him with annoyance. "And I think it's worth saying that you didn't _have _to come with me. It wasn't _my _idea."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt -- who is, believe it or not, a good friend of mine -- told me to keep an eye on you," the man explained, taking a step away from the imposing fortress that was Azkaban Prison. He appeared to be repressing a shudder.

"Thanks, I'll know who to yell at when I get back," Tonks quipped dryly. She yanked the Auror robes from the man's grasp, swiftly grabbed her Portkey and was whisked back the the Ministry.

The man stood looking at the spot she'd been, thoughtful. Then with a short laugh, he reached for his own specialized Portkey. Within a few seconds, he was back in his office as if he hadn't just been off attempting to subvert the will of the idiotic peacock who was playing at being Minister.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Everything you don't recognize belongs to JKR. _Harry Potter_ belongs to JKR. All hail JKR P

**Author's Note:** This is kind of late. And kind of short. Sorry 'bout that, folks. It was unintentional. I didn't mean to keep all of you waiting.

Also, since one reviewer recently reminded me that there really _are _people out there that really _care_ about author's putting review responses in their chapters (hence the rule), I've decided to stop including them in-chapter, and will be removing them from the previous chapters. I'd really rather nobody felt they _had _to report me for it, since I'd like to keep my story. However, if you any of you want, I'm willing to respond to your reviews another way, such as email, perhaps. So, if you enjoyed my responses (can't imagine why, lol), just let me know and I'll be glad keep it up via whatever media you prefer. I aim to please, after all. For now, everyone will have to make due with a giant, collective thank you to _everyone _that reviewed. (I'm allowed to do _that _much, right, ambiance15?)

Onwards, then, to chaptery goodness.

_**o.o.o.o**_

With dangerous villain Harry Potter locked safely away, You-Know-Who's rebirth completely nonexistent and Dumbledore's crackpot 'loyalist' squad relatively quiet, Minister Fudge was quite pleased with himself.

He sat in his plush office and felt smug.

It was the only significant thing he'd ever done well.

**o.o.o.o**

Harry did not recover for several days. Surrounded by dementors -- there were always two flanking his cell door -- in a climate which was unpleasant before the supernatural addition, his waking mind refused to resurface. Some part of him knew that if he were to awake, he'd be plagued once again with his mother's voice and the silent screams of Sirius's death. Wasting away from malnutrition was a welcome and appealing alternative.

While he was unconscious, between dreams of nameless terrors, Harry slowly became aware of a presence around him. Cold and unsure, but not unpleasant or unfriendly, the silent entity was always growing, gradually increasing until it surrounded Harry. It seemed to radiate a powerful energy that soothed him. It lulled him into a state relaxed enough for him to get a restful day's sleep, free of terrifying dreams. It felt familiar.

Azkaban itself no longer seemed such a horrible place.

Harry's return to consciousness was abrupt. The first thing he noticed, before total awareness had set it, was that it was night out; the torches in the hall had been lit. Harry could see their flames flickering against the stone wall through his open door.

His open door.

Harry sat up sharply, looking around wildly. It didn't take him very long (less than a second) to notice the wizard standing in the room with the leveled wand in one hand, pointed straight at Harry. The other hand was curled gently around the head of a snake, twined up the wizard's leg. He looked understandably pissed off.

Lord Voldemort had come to visit Harry Potter.

"Shit."

**o.o.o.o**

"What?" snapped The Minister, leaping from his chair. He threw his hands on his desk and leaned forward, glowering. He probably thought this made him look intimidating. The young man in front of him was one of those thoroughly useless people that worked in his office without ever having a real _job_. Cornelius vaguely remembered that his name was Ichabod, and that he was loosely connected, somehow, with the _Malfoys_. And if it weren't for that little tendency towards disrespect, Cornelius would have said he was generally intelligent.

Doubtless why the man had been hired in the first place. Doubtless.

"They can't repair it, sir," the young man repeated cautiously. This was odd; nothing usually seemed to worry Ichabod. Cornelius frowned.

"Of course they--" he started to exclaim, but Ichabod cut him off.

"The clean up team went down there, you know, when you sent them," Ichabod explained, clearing his throat. "But by the time they got there, the wall was completely intact. The only sign of any damage was a wide, shallow chip from one of the blocks near the door -- completely superficial, of course. The whole wall is structurally sound, the clean up team assures me."

"That's... what?"

Ichabod continued, as if Cornelius had said nothing, "I did think it was rather suspicious, though, so I called in the Warding Wizards we had on standby, and had them check it over." He paused, then said softly, "Their magic couldn't get _near_ the wall -- or any of the others connected to it, for that matter. Most of these are the same Wizards who did the refresher wards only five years ago; they're _all _from the same Guild as _created _the wards."

"But that's... that's _ridiculous_!" exclaimed the Minister, actually rather worried. As far as he was aware, nothing like this had ever happened before.

"I know," Ichabod nodded. He paused a moment, but Cornelius didn't to have anything to say, so Ichabod shrugged and went on. "I've spoken to the clean up team and the Warding Guild. Most of the Warding Wizards feel that this could be a highly dangerous and potentially _disastrous _situation, but some of them are just curious and don't seem to think there's anything actively wrong about this.

"On the recommendation of the entire Guild, however, I called in the best of the cursebreakers we have on retainer. Their magic wasn't repulsed by that of the wall, but they couldn't find anything to complain about. Indeed, a great many of them are saying that the wall is better and more thoroughly warded than any other part of the building -- and they've run comparison tests on the other Arrival and Containment Rooms to prove it."

Cornelius would have been sputtering incoherently, but he couldn't find the mental power to do even that. This was absolutely unheard of -- an unprecedented breach of possibility that he was at a complete loss to explain. Very few things could bring down or bypass wards put up by either of the two major Warding Guilds, and the Ministry had always employed the better of those two. Only powerful Dark Magic could actually alter_ parts_ of the wards, and there wasn't supposed to be _anything _that could totally change the very _structure _ofthem.

"You mean--" Cornelius finally managed to get out, bowled away by what he'd just been told.

But Ichabod was most definitely ignoring all of the Minister's questions, at this point.

"I've taken the liberty of requesting loan of several more cursebreakers, some who don't work for the government. Mostly from private organizations, but a few from such places as Gringotts. I'm hoping they'll be able to give a less biased, more detailed appraisal of those Wards, and considering that most of these cursebreakers are truly the best in their class, I doubt those hopes will not be realized," said Ichabod in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

"There's one, in particular, which I was exceptionally pleased to be told could come," he added, with an ingratiating smile. "The very best of the best, reputedly, he's come over to England out of Gringotts Egyptian office. Extended leave-with-pay; a family crisis, I understand. But he was quite honored to receive our request for assistance."

Cornelius stood hunched over his desk, blinking, for a few seconds. "These cursebreakers -- this Egyptian -- he'll be able to tell us what's wrong? And how to fix it?"

"Given time, sir," assured Ichabod, eyes flashing so briefly that Cornelius was sure he'd imagined it. "He _is _the best, after all."

"Very well. I want him to start work _immediately_!" declared Cornelius imperiously. He gestured significantly toward the door. "See that he's informed at once."

"Yes, sir." Ichabod gave a half-bow and carefully covered his face with a long-suffering expression, to hid the smug one that wanted to come out. He swept from the room, his long, rich robes billowing behind him and swishing agains the door frame with a gentle murmur.

Cornelius had already settled back into his chair before he realized that he hadn't bothered to ask the name of this better-than-best cursebreaker.

Well, he didn't think it matter, did it? After all, it was just a cursebreaker. Dumbledore didn't have any of _those_ in his pockets, did he?

Well, there was the one... but what were the chances of _that_? Ichabod was of Malfoy-stock. He'd never recommend a blood-traitor.

Of course, Cornelius had nothing against blood-traitors.

He just didn't like Weasleys much, at the moment.

Except Percy.

But he didn't count.

Did he?

**o.o.o.o**

Just down the hall from the Minister's office, Bill Weasley slipped from an alcove and fell into step beside Ichabod. He saw the smirk on the Ministry employee's face and grinned in return.

"We good to go, then?" he asked, as they made their way toward Arrival and Containment.

"Oh, yeah," answered Ichabod, his smirk turning slightly more smug. "You're now authorized by the Minister himself to do whatever you want to that damn wall, in the name of discovering what happened to it."

"That's good, but all I really want to do is look over its magic," Bill pointed out, traces of amusement obvious in his voice.

"Well, you can do that, too."


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claims to it being mine.

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone that reviewed last chapter, I appreciate your input. This took awhile, sorry -- nasty bout of depression for awhile there, I'm afraid.

Enjoy. (Don't forget to review, eh?)

_**o.o.o.o**_

"Shit," Harry repeated, staring up at Voldemort. He wanted to scramble to his feet, so as to be more on a level with the Dark Lord, but part of him knew it wouldn't matter if he did or not, save that he'd fail anyway and look a fool -- exactly what he wanted to prevent. He sat there in the corner of his cell and cursed himself for forgetting the wizard's plans.

"Indeed," agreed the furious Dark Lord. His white fingers were going paler at the knuckles on the hand that gripped his wand. "This is a most _unexpected _meeting."

"Why, did you think your lackeys should have had me killed, instead?" spat Harry contemptuously. He had a feeling that he might be going to die in a few minutes, but if he was, he wouldn't go without putting up resistance of some kind. He wouldn't give anyone reason to call a Potter a coward.

"My Death Eaters had nothing to do with this," was Voldemort's derisive retort. "Why would I have you brought _here_?"

Harry smiled thinly, wry amusement in his voice. "Why don't you ask Lucius Malfoy that? I'm sure he'd give you a better answer, since it was him that sent me."

This wasn't necessarily true, but Harry didn't care. Anything to rile the Dark Lord. He was more predictable, and therefore easier to deal with, when he was worked up. And more entertaining, too.

"Don't be _stupid_, boy." Voldemort appeared a little amused, though still incensed. "Lucius knows the penalty for acting without my permission; he follows my orders."

"Funny. He was at my little sending-off party," Harry said almost conversationally, smirking knowingly. "Seemed awfully pleased with himself, too."

"Fool!" Voldemort's eyes flashed -- or glowed -- or _something_ -- and for an instant Harry thought he could see into the Dark Lord's mind.

_A curse hovered, about to be let out._ Crucio. _Long pale fingers tightened imperceptibly on a wand._ Crucio. _A boy with black hair cringed on a floor, his face a mask of mocking defiance._ Crucio. _Hatred clouded everything._

_No... _screamed Harry's mind.

Harry thrust his hand into his robes and came out with his wand, moving faster than an ordinary eye could follow. He pointed the wand at Voldemort and without thinking shouted the most dangerous spell he knew-- it would work, any spell he tried would work-- he could do anything right then. Deadly green light flew from the wand, the Killing Curse.

There was a moment of blinking surprise.

And Voldemort laughed.

"Honestly, boy," he admonished with something that could almost be claimed was good humor. "Can't you tell a fake from your own wand?" His loud, mocking cackle rang against the walls of tiny room. "Miserable boy. Pitiful boy."

A flick of Voldemort's wand, and the fake in Harry's hand flew across the room and hit the far wall. It broke into thousands of tiny splinters. The beautiful phoenix feather core, still vibrantly colored, drifted lazily to the floor. Voldemort laughed again.

Harry snarled, "I hate you."

Anger such as he'd known very few times in his life was flooding Harry. But this wasn't the hot, rolling rage he was used to; it was a cold, creeping thing that got between the cracks of his soul and filled everything with the vicious darkness of rage.

Voldemort looked vaguely startled for a moment, but settled almost instantly. "Of course you do, boy," he said with twisted gentleness. "The weak always hate their betters for oppressing them."

Harry wanted to charge at the wizard, the foul thing pretending to be a man, wanted to rip out his nasty throat and let him lay bleeding on the filthy floor until he died. The thought sat in his mind's eye for several seconds; he could see it clearly, like a vision of the future. There was a black tang to the thought, that seeped further into his head the longer he held it there--

Roaring, Harry pushed the vision from his head, glaring furiously at the Dark Lord. The image flew from Harry's mind to his.

This time Voldemort really did look startled. "That wasn't one of mine," he hissed, something causing his voice to waver. Something in his snakelike eyes was proclaiming the fear he didn't want to show. Harry didn't care.

It would all be over in a few seconds. Harry prepared himself, he was going to leap at Voldemort, everything would finally be over. He'd rip out Voldemort's throat, just like in the vision. Anything to rid the world of _that_. A few seconds, and it would all be over. Finally.

Some part of him knew that this plan was hopeless, that he would only get himself killed that much more quickly. That same part saw the darkness of his plan and shied from it screaming warnings that didn't need words. Harry tried, he really did. But he wanted so badly to do this. He couldn't stop himself.

He made to leap.

He couldn't move at all. Something held him in place. It wasn't Voldemort, though the wand was still on him; he knew what Voldemort's magic felt like, and such a cruel thing could never be this warm and gentle. He frowned.

Voldemort frowned, as well, though for different reasons. For the first time in his life, he was actually doubting whether he could kill something.

This puling boy should not be cause for him to worry. Yet he worried. Because this boy hadn't been reason for him to worry 15 years ago, and look what had happened then.

Voldemort was actually a little afraid of Harry, just then, just a little.

Harry was glaring at him, cold and level. Just like the blade of a dagger before it stabbed into your heart.

"You know, I don't think I'll put you out of your misery. You seem so comfortable in it!" proclaimed Voldemort with a high, cold laugh that set Harry's teeth on edge. He turned to sweep majestically from the room.

"You're dead, Tom," Harry hissed at his back, meaning his words more than any others he'd ever said. "If you don't finish me now, you'll lose your chance forever. I'll find you. I'll kill you."

Voldemort faltered only briefly. Then he swirled out and left Harry where he was, unharmed, with a full score of dementors doing guard duty. Protecting him from outside help. Him, the last human on Azkaban Isle -- a prison no longer, but for the boy trapped within himself more than the stone walls.

"You're dead, Tom!"

**o.o.o.o**

"How's it going, Weasley?" Ichabod inquired, coming once again down the corridor, this time carrying two cups of coffee. He was grinning about something.

Bill didn't respond. He was kneeling before the wall of Arrival and Containment Room 3 with his wand on the floor next to him. Both hands were up, splayed a hairsbreadth from the wall, as close to touching it as humanly possible without making contact. His face was screwed up into a tight expression of frustration, his lips moving fractionally but at a steady pace. He appeared to be concentrating extremely hard.

"Weasley?" repeated Ichabod, halting when he was level with Bill. He frowned and glanced between the redhead and the wall. "Aren't you supposed to be using your wand for that?"

Head swiveling, Bill's eyes snapped open. A faint red glow died from around his hands; Ichabod hadn't noticed it until it was gone.

"Oh," murmured Bill, sagging back onto his ankles. "It's you."

Ichabod gave a small chuckle, though it sounded somewhat confused. "Yeah. Lil' ole Ichabod, eh?" He held out his right hand, offering the coffee in it. "You want this?"

"Thanks," Bill said gratefully. He took the steaming coffee from the other man and swallowed half of it in one go. He twitched his head sharply and glared at the wall.

"Welcome." Ichabod's grin had returned. "So, what's going on?"

Bill reached over for his shirt, discarded more than an hour ago (he preferred to work in Muggle clothes). He pulled it on. Immediately, the sweat on his back soaked through it, causing it to stick unpleasantly. He winced slightly.

"This is absurd," he said flatly, uncoiling his legs from beneath him but making no move to get up. It was well past midnight; he'd been working for several hours, without a break.

Ichabod looked confused. "What?"

"I hope you haven't got anybody else lined up to look at this thing, 'cause it won't do them any good," explained Bill, drinking the other half of his coffee. He crumbled the paper cup into a ball.

"How do you mean?" asked Ichabod with a startled expression.

Bill gestured toward the wall, as he did so treating it to another glare, as if it could see him. "Compared to the information on file about Ministry buildings, this thing is so different in so many ways that it's practically a complete anomaly. Hell, the only thing the same is the way they _look_, which isn't much at all, in this kind of thing."

Ichabod stayed silent, letting Bill continue, which he did after reaching over for the second coffee cup.

"This was supposed to have purely structural building wards, right? Well, it doesn't. Yeah, sure, it's got _wards_, and even some to protect the integrity of the wall itself, but not the kind of wards you put on a building."

"Oh," said Ichabod, his expression becoming remarkably neutral.

"It's like..." Bill stopped, thinking, for several long moments. "Like personnel wards, they way they appear on clothing when the warded individual puts it on. Private, personal wards -- you'd put wards like that on your kid, when he was too young to use magic, and his robes would sort of absorb that warding. Contamination by association."

"... The wall is _clothing_?"

Ichabod was staring at him. Bill nodded hesitantly. "In that way, yes, it's like clothing," he agreed slowly.

"And in what ways is it not like clothing?" Ichabod asked, when Bill volunteered no more information.

Bill made an amused sort of noise. He leaned in closer to Ichabod and smiled a wicked, smug little smile. With the tone of one letting his best friend in on a secret, he said, "It's sentient."

"Sentient?" Ichabod repeated incredulously.

"Yeah. Well, not precisely. It's capable of thought, after a fashion, but I'm not so sure about feeling." Bill shrugged and sat back up. He glanced at the wall, considering something. "When you came up, I was trying to get inside the magic, so I could figure that out. It was laughing at me."

"Laughing at... Are you all right, Weasley?" exclaimed Ichabod, putting a hand on Bill's shoulder and suddenly looking concerned. Quite apart from his words, the other man's face was flushed oddly.

Bill brushed him off, looking quizzical. "Fine. Why?"

"Well..." How do you tell a friend you think he's lost some part of his mind, without offending him? "You look tired."

"Do I? Just tired?" Bill shrugged. "Thanks; I'm actually exhausted."

"Maybe you ought to go home?" suggested Ichabod. He stood, lending Bill a hand to help him up. "Get some sleep and come back later?"

Using Ichabod's hand rather more heavily than he'd expected to, Bill got to his feet as well, picking up his wand on the way. He grinned at Ichabod. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Ichabod didn't respond. "Well, I'm not. That wall _laughed _at me."

"You realize that you're practically saying that the wall is alive, don't you?" pressed Ichabod, ushering Bill down the hall, one hand constantly hovering behind the other's back, as if Ichabod expected him to fall over at any moment.

"Yes, alive! That's it exactly!" exclaimed Bill, smiling somewhat dryly. "And you still don't believe me."

Looking uncomfortable, Ichabod shrugged. They'd reached the end of the corridor, and Bill started to take the wrong turn, his face much paler than it had been a few minutes ago. Ichabod frowned.

"Well, no, I don't, but... it's a little far-fetched, even for wizards, don't you think?" he reasoned, as he gently turned Bill around by the shoulders and guided him in the proper direction. When Bill didn't object to the contact, Ichabod seriously began to wonder if something worse than tiredness wasn't wrong.

"Yes, it... No, no, not at all!" Bill halted, his shoulders sagging, but he was smiling in a very pleased way. Ichabod started to protest, but Bill interrupted him with, "No, really. Now I think about it, I've run into stone like that before."

"Oh?" snapped Ichabod, not even really paying attention to the conversation any longer; Bill had edged his way over and was leaning against a wall-- green was tingeing his ashy face-- he really didn't look healthy at all. "Weasley, are you all right?"

Bill nodded, though this simple action brought a twisted look of discomfort to his face. "Yeah, yes, I'm fine. Listen, that wall -- and all the ones next to it, and next to those, even -- they're just like Hogwarts." He began taking heavy, shallow breaths. His eyes were unfocused. "I don't know why I didn't see it... before. It's so... obvious..."

The arms he'd been supporting himself with gave out and he sagged against the wall, gasping. Both his legs were quivering with the apparent effort it was taking to keep him upright.

"Weasley?" Ichabod demanded, extremely worried. Something was definitely wrong with the redhead. Bill opened his mouth to respond, but his words were cut off in cry of pain. "Weasley? Weasley!"

Bill's wand slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head so only the whites were visible. He keeled over and pitched face-first toward the floor.

"Weasley!"

Ichabod sprang forward, barely managing to catch the other man before he hit the ground. He lowered Bill gently the rest of the way, turning him over in the process; his face was blank, his breathing labored.

Ichabod's eyes were wide and almost panicked. The man whom he'd considered both friend and enemy while at Hogwarts was now cold as stone, laying motionless before him. "Merlin..." Ichabod murmured, quickly removing his hands from where they'd brushed the man's cheek.

"Bill!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, never was, never will be. It's all JKR's, and you should know that.

**Author's Notes:** Yeah, this took an age and a half to show up, I know. (Extremely sorry about that!) Probably might not have happened now, either, except that I've been inspired by the recent release of the GoF movie (whoooo-ey!), in theaters near you so go see it, eh? (Come on, who else liked the movie? Eh? Eh? No spoilers, or anything, but Tom Felton is so _pretty_ that it makes me happy. Had nothing to do with anything, but who _cares_? Sirius is still my favorite, though, pity there wasn't more of him.)

Er, done talking about the movie now.

Review please, lovely readers. Perhaps you'll inspire me further!

**o.o.o.o**

It was 3 o'clock in the morning. The Hospital Wing of Hogwarts was crowded, but there was only one patient. Bill Weasley lay on a bed at the very end of the row, comatose. Around him stood (or sat) most of his family, several members of the Order, and Ichabod Malfoy-Hobbes. Every face in the room was grave, except the settled, peaceful expression on Bill's.

"What _happened_?" asked Molly, her hands fluttering above Bill, wanting to touch him but afraid to. "Oh, what _happened_?"

"Poison," Ichabod murmured, without meeting anyone's eyes. "In the coffee. My coffee." Severus glanced at him sharply, but everyone else turned to Poppy Pomfrey.

She nodded bleakly. "Yes, poison. A very nasty one, too."

"Wh-what kind of poison?" Molly shrieked, her flutterings increasing. "Did you give him the antidote?"

"I don't think anyone but Severus would have heard of it," said Poppy, soothingly. "It's very obscure. The oddest thing, really; it involves boiling old lace... But yes, I've administered an antidote. Fortunately there wasn't a full dose in his bloodstream, otherwise he would have been killed instantly."

"I'm the reason he's in here," whispered Ichabod to no-one in particular.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Severus. "What would make you think _that_?"

"It was in _my _coffee! That poison was meant for me!" Ichabod got to his feet suddenly and gestured to Bill's prone form. "And the only reason _he's_ not dead right now is because he didn't drink all of it."

"Don't be silly," snorted Poppy, looking faintly bemused. "With the amount he _did _drink he should be dead by now, nevermind that it wasn't a full dose -- that only assures instant death. You say that a quarter of an hour passed between the time he drank it, and when you got him here; that was plenty of time for the poison in his system to do its job."

Severus frowned in apparent agreement. Molly's eyes were wide. "What are you saying?" she demanded.

"There's some reason other than the antidote that the poison hasn't killed him," Poppy murmured, taking a step closer to Bill's bed. "I don't know what that is... but there's _something _here I'm not seeing." She turned and glanced pointedly at Ichabod. "Are you sure you didn't do anything?"

"If I'd done something," snapped Ichabod, "don't you think I'd have _told _you?"

"Yes, most likely," she agreed, nodding a little. "But perhaps you didn't know you did it?"

Ichabod glared, self-recrimination evident in his voice as he spoke. "I've repeated everything that happened several times already. If none of what I said so far offered any clues, than nothing I'm _going _to say will help."

A little away from the main huddle of anxious Order members, Tonks suddenly sat up very straight in her chair, eyes staring unseeingly at Bill. There was an expression of incredulous comprehension on her face.

Silently, she mouthed three words that allowed Bill's miraculous escape to make sense to her.

"It was Harry!"

The others hadn't noticed her, though, and were continuing to argue. Ichabod, it seemed, was determined to make himself feel as guilty as possible, while Severus was endeavoring with all his might to persuade the young man otherwise. Madame Pomfrey kept interrupting the two, trying to convince everyone that _something _had happened besides what she'd been told and, by Merlin, she wanted to know what.

Molly Weasley watched this with no small amount of horror on behalf of her eldest son. The rest just watched.

Tonks covered her mouth with one hand, a tingly feeling of awe creeping up the back of her neck.

_It was Harry_.

"Stop it!" Dumbledore called sharply, entering the wing.

Ichabod cleared his throat and didn't return to his seat. He faced the Headmaster squarely and said, in as calm a voice as he could muster (which wasn't much of one), "Sir, I'm afraid that someone must know I'm helping you."

Dumbledore's expression remained outwardly serene, though everyone knew that this information must have affected him. "What makes you say this?" he asked quietly.

"The poison, it was--" Ichabod started, a certain despondency coming into his eyes.

Nodding, Dumbledore cut him off before he could get to the core of his self-recriminating point. "I have been told where it was, yes."

Ichabod swallowed noticeably. He looked around at all the faces, but avoided meeting anyone's gaze except for Severus's. He added quietly, "And... and it was my idea to bring him in to help, in the first place. If I hadn't--"

"I see. That's quite enough, Ichabod," Dumbledore said, interrupting him again. He was frowning slightly, his eyes on Bill Weasley's still form.

Tonks squeaked, wanting to tell someone what she'd figured out. Dumbledore glanced at her, held her gaze for a moment, and his eyes started to twinkle.

"Ichabod, Severus, I'd like to see you in my office, if I could," the elderly Headmaster said, turning to leave the wing. Severus swept along in his wake without a word. Looking slightly confused, Ichabod followed.

Dumbledore paused at the door and half-turned. "Tonks? Come along."

**o.o.o.o**

Bill Weasley recovered with surprising speed. Only a few days passed before he awoke. The first thing he saw was his mother's concerned face, hovering above him.

The first thing he heard was emergency Wizarding Wireless news broadcast announcing an attack by You-Know-Who, against Azkaban of all places.

It was a bloody slaughter, according to the press.

The dementors, with very little persuasion, joined forces with the infamous Dark Lord and turned that which they guarded over, without hesitation. Some of the creatures were allowed to remain in their posts, as guards of the prison that was now Voldemort's. Others he stationed at strategic locations around the country, intent on spreading terror as far as he could.

All inmates of the prison either pledged themselves to the Dark Cause (and it's Lord, of course) or were killed immediately.

Harry Potter, You-Know-Who made sure it was known, had died _after _swearing fealty.

Not surprisingly, Bill lost consciousness almost as quickly as he'd regained it.

**o.o.o.o**

In the aftermath of his -- apparently successful -- assault on the wizarding prison, the Dark Lord was not nearly as pleased as his servants would have expected.

In fact, he didn't seem pleased at _all_.

Quite the opposite, really.

"You let them take him there anyway?" screamed Voldemort, right up in Lucius Malfoy's face. He was as angry as most of the Death Eaters had ever seen him. Angrier than that, even. "And with his _wand_? And I'm expected to _reward _this incompetence? What kind of fool do you think I am?"

"My lord," exclaimed Lucius, mildly confused. "You, yourself, instructed that he be--"

"Fools, all of you! I'm surrounded by half-wits!" shrieked the Dark Lord, stopping Lucius before he could finish. He glared around the circle of his followers. One of them, poor fool, forgot himself and cringed visibly under the red-eyed, burning gaze.

Voldemort threw a casual Crucio at him and reveled in the malicious pleasure that only came with inflicting inexpressible torture on your own minions.

But even that wasn't enough to keep him from remembering his anger.

He hissed menacingly. "Insufferable plebs!"

Nagini responded lazily from some distance away. Voldemort seemed to ignore her, but most of the Death Eaters appeared to find the serpentine communication disconcerting.

"Fools!" the Dark Lord repeated.

He was very angry indeed.

"My lord--" began another of the masked followers, in an appropriately servile tone.

"Shut up," snapped Voldemort, cutting the other Death Eater's words off, as well. "It's lucky for all of you that I found a solution. So you won't be punished this time... as much."

He pointed his wand at Lucius Malfoy.

This was a personal failure of their Lord's for which they were all responsible. None would escape the Cruciatus then.

The wrath of a Dark Lord is a terrible thing.

Especially when one of his plans have gone awry.

**o.o.o.o**

Having been stuck on an island for several hours with nothing but soul-suckers for company, the last prisoner of Azkaban had reached a rather not-so-startling conclusion.

Harry Potter really did not like dementors. They were, possibly, his least favorite thing in existence.

Well, except for that _other thing_.

Again, the Boy-Who-Lived cursed the name of his captor.

"You're _dead_, Tom!" he screamed into the darkness. His words echoed off the walls and down the halls, getting curiously louder, until he fancied he could hear it being said by a hundred voices, all his own.

Outside his cell, a dementor shifted, reminding Harry of its presence (as if he could forget). Yeah, he was kind of stuck.

Frustrated, Harry kicked a pebble across the floor, sending it skittering out into the hall. The dementor wouldn't notice, of course, which was really quite annoying.

He obviously didn't like being a captive, but Harry was sure it wouldn't last long. He'd get out. Sooner or later, he'd get out. He wasn't sure how, but it would happen. And when he was free...

Tom Marvolo Riddle was going down.

_Once more, with feeling._


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Still applies, thank you very much.

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the (absurdly long) wait between chapters. I get distracted easily?

Please don't forget to review!

**o.o.o.o**

"Please, sit down," Dumbledore instructed as soon as they had entered his office. Casting curious glances at Tonks, Ichabod and Severus took seats in two of the three chairs that had appeared facing the giant, claw-footed desk.

Tonks, looking agitated, seemed not to have heard him. She stayed near the door, wide eyes fixed on Dumbledore.

"Albus," Severus hissed, before either of the younger people had a real chance to speak. "That boy should be _dead_."

Something about his tone suggested that he was holding Dumbledore personally responsible for the fact that Bill was still among the living. When, indeed, the venerable old man'd had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Dumbledore said as much, in fact.

Tonks nodded quickly several times in agreement with this, her hair switching to a different (neon) color with each downward swing of her head. "It was Harry!" she blurted, helpfully. There was an excited gleam in her eyes. "Who saved him, I mean. It was _Harry_."

The men stared at her. Dumbledore rubbed his chin, considering.

"Preposterous," sputtered Severus, looking absolutely appalled at the very idea that a Potter had once again been involved in something miraculous.

"Let's hear Miss Tonks out before we dismiss her statement," Dumbledore cautioned softly, just a hint of reproach in his tone. His lips were pursed , considering and he was staring at Tonks contemplatively.

Severus grunted unhappily once, but afterwards subsided into silence. Ichabod was still staring at Tonks; he had yet to say anything, and did not look about to.

"What makes you say it was Harry?" Dumbledore asked with relative wall.

Tonks was silent for several tense minutes, and was beginning to look rather confused about what she wanted to say, when finally she admitted quietly, "I... can't really say, sir. But I just _know _it was Harry. Or, rather, Harry's wall."

Severus's eyebrows almost reached his hairline. "Surely I misheard you. Did you just say Potter's _wall?_"

"Yes." Tonks nodded enthusiastically, her hair flashing wildly again. "The one at the Ministry, Arrival and Containment Room 3."

Ichabod spat out something that might have been an oath in Russian.

Dumbledore's face gave away nothing of what he was thinking. He demanded quietly, "Nymphadora, what precisely are you suggesting?"

Eagerly, she came a little further into the room.

"Ichabod said Bill thought that the wards on that wall, the one that broke, seemed almost exactly like the wards here. Right? And I know I read somewhere that the Founders created those wards using bits of their own magic, permanently imbedded in the very fabric of the wards they were creating." She clinched her hands in front of her, anxious to be believed. When Dumbledore smiled encouragingly, she went on, "And that connected them to the wards, and also left behind a sort of semi-sentience, didn't it?"

All three men nodded this time, though on the part of Severus it was a bit reluctant, like a spoiled brat forced to admit he'd done the wrong thing.

Tonks beamed.

"Well, it had to have been Harry then, hadn't it? Nobody else could have done that to the wall, to the _wards_. Nobody else had the chance!"

"You are forgetting," Severus pointed out rather caustically, "that we do not know if this _wall _had anything at all to do with Weasley's... current state."

"It could have, though," said Ichabod. He was gazing at the floor pensively. "I mean, it's possible."

"Even the wards around Hogwarts do not actively protect its inhabitants from things like _poisons_," Severus countered almost scathingly. His tone would have been even harsher had he been talking to almost anyone but Ichabod.

There was a silent pause. Tonks started to speak, but Dumbledore beat her to it. "No, the wards do not. Not since the last of the Founders died, at any rate," he said , considering. His eyes were clear and serious. "Hmm."

Severus blanched, then stared at the Headmaster. "Are you saying... that's _possible_?"

"Probable, even, I suspect." The white-haired wizard smiled slightly. "Harry seems to have a thing for saving Weasleys."

Her hair a brilliant shade of neon yellow, Tonks was beaming still. "Which means your plan is working, doesn't it, sir?" she asked, strangely breathless. Ichabod glanced at her and then to the Headmaster.

"You never did tell me what that was about," he murmured, finishing his sweep of the room by looking at Severus, who also seemed slightly confused. "I don't understand."

"Now is not the time," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. He kept smiling, "Perhaps once we have figured a way to contact Harry. Until then..." He gestured to the door. With one last grateful look, Tonks slipped out. The two men rose to follow her, but Dumbledore held up a hand.

"A word alone, Ichabod."

Looking at Severus, Ichabod shrugged his agreement. The Potions Master left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Yes, sir?" prompted Ichabod. He was frowning, his brow creased almost thoughtfully.

"I know you may feel, at the moment, that you are a liability to my... organization," Dumbledore intoned softly. Considerately, he maintained eye-contact with the much younger wizard as he continued to speak. "However, I assure that we are much better off for your help, even if others know that you are providing that help, than we would be without it."

Dumbledore waited a few seconds, perhaps to make sure the other wizard wasn't going to say anything, then added, "I would like you to join the Order. Officially. I trust you. And, I believe it would not be right to let you go on as you are. We take care of our own, Ichabod, as you have done tonight."

Ichabod set his jaw and looked away.

The Headmaster just smiled serenely. "Think about it, Ichabod," he murmured entreatingly. His eyes twinkled. "Simply think about it. Do not rush to a decision. You know how important a question this is; indeed, I believe I've already asked it of you once before."

Swallowing visibly, the young man nodded and left rather quickly.

Dumbledore was not at all surprised when, four days later, just after Voldemort took possession of Azkaban, Ichabod came to him to accept the offered membership.

**o.o.o.o**

Harry was starting to get very tired of the walls of his cell. It was amazing, how quickly they got boring. And, coming from a boy who spent months on end staring at the same thing when he was younger and then again almost every summer, it was saying something that he'd gotten sick of them after the first three hours.

Five hours after those first three had passed, sitting in a corner, feeling the warmth of the stones seep into his body, Harry grimaced. He was very, very tired of those walls.

He wouldn't have admitted it, even if there had been someone to admit it to, but when he closed his eyes, he would have sworn he was sitting in Hogwarts. One of the dungeons, of course, but Hogwarts nonetheless. Even with his eyes open, there was a _presence_ emanating from the building, or this section at least -- specifically the bit right against Harry's back; he thought it was an outside wall but couldn't be sure.

This feeling in the walls seemed to be growing, even, pulsing slightly as it did, and whispering soothingly to Harry.

An hour ago, Harry'd ceased to feel the dementors entirely. He hadn't noticed, though, because as soon as they realized they were getting nothing from this person, the dementors stationed outside the (still open) door to his cell had left. They moved silently, and Harry hadn't heard them go, or seen them. (Honestly, he'd been too busy staring at the wall and slowly coming to terms with the fact that he'd allowed himself to be captured and imprisoned, first by the Ministry and then Voldemort. In fairness, he was allowed a bit of oblivion. Just a bit, though.)

Suddenly, without warning, Harry got to his feet and took a few angry steps toward the doorway. He paused, blinking once or twice. He didn't remember deciding to stand or walk at all.

Low, rolling laughter reached out to him from the walls, and Harry had to smile in replay.

He couldn't have said why he was trusting this presence, or entity, or whatever it was, but he _was _trusting it. It was friendly, and warm, and not at all menacing, and not at all false, and completely the opposite of all the Dark Magic Harry had ever seen or felt. That was including Riddle's diary.

Absently stooping to pick up the gleaming phoenix feather laying on the ground and putting it in the pocket where he usually kept his wand, Harry exited the cell. In the hallway, he glanced around cautiously. There were no dementors or living beings, but Harry gagged and nearly vomited when he saw the bloody, mutilated body sprawled in the doorway of the cell next to his. He turned away, wishing in the back of his mind that it would be gone.

He continued down the corridor, looking only straight ahead. He tried not to notice when there were bodies or body parts in the cells or the hallway. He tried even harder not to think about what it meant when there were _no _bodies, living _or _dead, in the cells; a far more frequent occurrence, unfortunately. Blood was everywhere, even in those places where no corpse lay, and whole place reeked of fear and pain, desperation and anger.

It was a nauseating combination.

He'd gone through perhaps a half a dozen hallways, steadily more and more sickened by the carnage, before he encountered the first dementor. It was up ahead, prowling through an intercepting hall. Harry slipped into an empty cell and pressed himself against the wall, praying the thing wouldn't realize he was up and wandering the almost-deserted Azkaban.

He was mildly astonished when the thing simply walked by without so much as a twitch in his direction.

"Huh," snorted Harry, once it was out of sight. He was frowning bemusedly. "That's interesting."

Interesting it was, indeed, for every dementor in the place treated Harry this way. It was as if he didn't exist. He doubted whether they would have noticed him even if he stood directly in front of them -- but, of course, Harry hid whenever they came near, just in case they _would _have noticed.

Harry, guided by some sort of sixth sense (as it were), wandered through Azkaban as if he knew exactly where he was going. It was a vast, sprawling maze, but somewhat surprisingly had only one level. Every door was open, every torch lit, almost every hallway clear of obstacles where Harry approached. It was amazing.

He didn't notice it, but behind him, bodies tended to decompose rapidly and without the stench that would have accompanied the process otherwise. Bloodstains faded. Grime and filth from walls, ceilings and floors disappeared. And the warmth, the presence like in the walls of Harry's original cell crept after him, spreading in his wake.

No dementor walked where Harry'd set foot.

**o.o.o.o**

The room was dark when Bill woke again. His eyes were open but he didn't see anything. There was a soft murmur of voices around him; when he groaned, it stopped briefly and returned more loudly. One voice he distinguished as his mother's.

"Mum?" he croaked rather faintly, blinking several times and trying to see through the blackness around him.

Somewhere to his left someone lit a candle. Then suddenly there were candles flaring up all around him, and he could see the small army grouped at the edges of his bed. There were redheads everywhere.

"Shhhh-it," hissed Bill, squinting at them because his eyes didn't seem to want to focus.

"Bill!" his mother snapped, halfheartedly. "Language! Your sister's here!"

Bill thought he heard Ginny mutter something much worse than what he'd said, but decided it would be better to ignore it. "What're you all doing here, anyway?"

"Waiting for you to wake up again," muttered Charlie, directly on Bill's right. His face was whiter than it usually was, even after one of his winters in Romania. "You were out for three days, you know."

"And then you rude enough to end up asleep again before Mum could get the rest of us back here," one of the twins pointed out. The other nodded and added, "Bloody inconsiderate."

That was when Bill remembered the last thing he'd heard, before he'd passed out the second time. He tried to sit up, much too quickly, and far too many voices let out exclamations of protest, far too loudly.

"Where's the fire?" Ron asked, worriedly.

Bill fixed his eyes on his younger brother and voiced the only thought he could formulate. "_Harry!_"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Ron looked suddenly green.

"_Harry_?" Bill repeated, feeling nervous and thinking about Wizarding Wiredless broadcast he'd heard. He was thinking perhaps he'd dreamed it, but nobody looked as if he had.

Apparently, everyone else knew what he was talking about, because Ron spat, "He didn't _do it_."

"What happened?" he demanded. He swung his gaze rapidly from face to face, but the only one willing to share an opinion seemed to be Ron. Possibly, because Ron was so very _fierce _about his opinion.

"You-Know-Who's Death Eaters attacked Azkaban. This we know." Ron glared at the rest of his family, as if they were saying it had never happened. "Yesterday morning, a few hours after the attack, some employees on their way to work found a body in front of the Daily Prophet building."

Ron paused, and the Weasleys all took a moment to look disgusted and angry, in varying degrees. Bill heartily agreed with every expression.

Ron then continued, "There was a note pinned to the body, saying it was Harry's. There were also a bunch of gratuitous lies about him joining the Death Eaters before they killed him... but the body spontaneously combusted before they could run any tests on it. So it couldn't be proved that it was Harry, and that's why _I _am not even sure he's bloody dead."

"Harry... join the _Death Eaters_?" blurted Bill in an utterly scandalized voice. "_Harry_?"

"He didn't do it!" Ron insisted, furiously. Ginny put a hand on his arm, apparently trying to calm him down, but he shook her off. "Okay? He didn't bloody _do _it!"

Bill just shook his head. He looked amazed. "That's-- Harry, join the Death Eaters? That's _ludicrous_."

That shut Ron up. His jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He opened his mouth again to say something, once or twice, but nothing came out.

"You don't believe it?" Ginny finally asked, a not-that-startled tilt to her head. Bill rolled his eyes at her.

"It's Harry, Ginny. Of course I don't believe it," he said firmly. There was a rasp on the last couple of words, and without being asked Molly hurried over to get him a glass of water. He accepted it with a murmur of thanks, and took a drink.

"Well," Ron muttered clenching his fists and glaring at the door to the ward, "_Some _people believe it."

Bill frowned. "Who--" he started, but then realized, with a cold clenching of his gut, that he didn't need to ask. The militant looks on the faces of Fred and George were more than enough to tell him who Ron meant. Only one person's thoughts on the matter could upset so many of his brothers so much.

_Percy_.

"Bastard," Bill growled, without thinking, and _everyone _knew whom he'd meant.

Though she probably would have liked to give him a disapproving glare, Molly could only put a hand over her mouth and pretend she wasn't about to start sobbing. Arthur, with very uncharacteristic coldness, shook his head at Bill and said, "I don't want us to start that again right now. We almost lost a member of our family. We should be glad that we didn't.

"Now is not the time to talk about your brother."

_Whom we have already lost._

**o.o.o.o**

Harry was not enjoying Azkaban. Some... _things_ had already started to rot before he reached them, drawing flies and fester maggots and generally stinking up the place. He hadn't realized that things improved after he passed, so the desperate bleakness of the situation was steadily making his heart sink lower and lower. He wondered how long some of the corpses had been there, decaying.

He really didn't like this place.

Then things changed, suddenly.

Harry sensed the gates of Azkaban before he saw them. He was hit with a surge of malicious, overpowering glee, most definitely not his own. It was cold and controlling and made his skin crawl. It was pervasive. It made him angry.

He rounded a corner and there they were. Massive, ugly black things, tall and wide and wicked-looking. What made them scarier even than they looked was an indefinable something. The hostile feeling from the gates grew stronger, tried to seep into Harry's bones and terrify him. It wanted him to turn back around _go back to his cell_. It wanted to control him.

It made Harry _angry_.

He glared at the gates for a few minutes, just to show them who was boss. Then he hissed something uncomplimentary and slipped back around the corner.

Harry had no idea to open the gates. Even if he'd known, though, there was the matter of the thirty dementors guarding it. Despite that he, for some reason, didn't seem to be affected by their presence any longer, he still couldn't get past _thirty _of them. He made a little noise of disgust, sticking his head around to glare at the gates one last time. Then he headed out to explore the other half of Azkaban.

He wouldn't be getting through _those _gates any time soon. But, neither would anyone else.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** Still applies.

**Author's Note:** After having made all of you wait this long for an update -- a whole bloody year, if I want to be technical about it -- I think it would be just bad form to expect any of you to wade through an author's note before reading the chapter. So, I won't, but since I don't like putting author's notes at the end of the chapter either, I hope you'll all come back after you finish, so you can read my apology for the tremendously, unforgivably long delay. I'm really rather ashamed of myself, actually. But, I've posted now, and I expect to post again at least once before the end of the month. We shall see.

Please don't forget to review, eh?

**o.o.o.o**

Harry sat. Having been over every surface in Azkaban, there really was nothing else for him to do. So, even though he didn't enjoy the inactivity that much, he just sat.

He'd returned to his original cell, because the warmth of the building was still strongest there, to find it cleaner and much less oppressing than it had been when he'd left. He was settled with his back against one wall, his head tipped back and his eyes mostly closed.

Not far away, in the cell just across the hall, were three men and a woman, all barely alive but definitely not dead. He'd found them in his search of the fortress, squirreled away here and there, in the darkest cells, ones that were actually locked. It appeared they'd been deposited by the Death Eaters. Since Harry couldn't bring himself to just leave them where they were in the filth, he'd brought them along; the how of the action hadn't concerned him very much, which was fortunate, because there was no way he should have been able to lift even one of them.

In a moment he was going to get bored, and then he was going to go check on his fellow inmates. He thought, if they were awake and feeling better -- which they should be, with the soothing presence in the walls coaxing them back to health -- he'd ask them who they were. He already had a few suspicions, of course, but it was never a good idea to assume anything (which was why he'd locked the door to their new, cleaner cell). He was _pretty _sure, however, that he recognized at least one of the men as belonging to the Order of the Phoenix, even though that realization didn't particularly endear him to Harry.

He was still a bit miffed that the Order hadn't stopped him getting sent to Azkaban, after all.

With a sigh, Harry shook his head -- he'd already discovered how useless it was to dwell on that subject -- and shoved his hands into his empty pockets.

"Wha...?" he murmured, one of his hands closing around something that had been in that pocket. It felt rather like...

Frowning lightly, Harry removed the object and held it in front of him, both hands cupped gently around it. It was a bright red feather, at least a foot long (how had it fit in his pocket without his realizing it was there? how had it fit there at all?) and in perfect condition, despite its trip around the prison from inside his trouser pocket. It took him a moment to determine what it was, and when he did, he let out a surprised gasp.

It was the core of his wand.

The soft tingle of recognition and magic spreading down his fingers and up his arms confirmed that it was, indeed, the phoenix feather from inside his wand, the wand that had shattered against the wall during his confrontation with Voldemort. He twirled the thing gently, watching as it shimmered. There was warmth in it, more than just his own body heat could have given it, and he thought that he could hear Fawkes singing faintly, from somewhere.

It was _definitely _the core of his wand.

Through his delight, Harry managed to remember something, and it gave him pause. Voldemort had said the wand was a fake, and it had certainly seemed it at the time; it hadn't responded to Harry's Killing Curse, and it had--

"No," Harry murmured, understanding causing a ghost of a smile to twitch his lips upwards. The wand had responded, he remembered the sickly green light quite clearly. It was only that the spell had never actually _hit _Voldemort. It had flown toward the Dark Lord, just as he'd told it to, and it would have killed the monster too, except it had been intercepted-- absorbed-- by that benevolent presence now inhabiting the walls of Azkaban. The same presence, in fact, that had kept Harry from leaping at Voldemort and ripping his throat out.

"So."

Emerald green eyes darted over to a corner of the cell, where there was a little pile of splinters and wood chips. Pale, slender fingers beckoned the wood to float over, which it did. A moment, a firmly thought command, and a brief nudge at the magic in Azkaban's stone later, and the wood converged with with the Phoenix feather. Leaving Harry with a long, smooth length of wood.

A small spread across his face. "I have my wand."

The possibilities, Harry realized, were now endless. His escape was imminent -- it was only a matter of time now. Time, and a careful examination of his options.

Harry was broken out of his thoughts when he heard low, frightened voices from across the hall and realized that his fellow prisoners had woken up at last. He stood; time enough for the mysteries of his wand to clear themselves up later. At the moment, he had more pressing business. He slipped his wand into his pocket and crossed the hall.

**o.o.o.o**

Late afternoon sunshine filled the hospital wing when Bill opened his eyes. This time he wasn't surrounded by Weasleys, for which he was guiltily grateful; they could be so very dreadfully loud and smothering. In point of fact, there wasn't a single redhead to be seen anywhere in the wing, apart from himself.

"Hullo," murmured a low voice, and Bill turned his head to see that there was someone sitting in the chair near his bed. He recognized the man immediately, and lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

"What're you doing here?" he returned, forgetting that saying such a thing would be rude and his mother would have boxed his ears if she'd heard.

Ichabod smiled humorlessly. "Mm, not the first place you'd expect to find me, is it?"

"Yeah. Sorry." Bill turned his head back and stared at the ceiling. A moment later, he remembered something that he'd thought very important when he'd first heard it, and he muttered quietly, "Pomfrey says you saved my life."

Not surprisingly, Ichabod looked highly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat several times and glanced around the hospital wing helplessly, obviously searching for something he could use to change the subject. Finding nothing of the sort, he sighed.

"Well. I suppose," he said haltingly, and then stopped completely. His eyes, much to Bill's surprise, came up to meet the other man's as he explained, "It was the least I could do, considering I put it in danger in the first place."

Bill highly doubted that. He knew Ichabod well enough, however, to understand that saying so was pointless.

He smiled, instead. "Still, thank you. I owe you one, Ichabod."

Immediately, Ichabod relaxed, and most of the tension seeped out of the air. Not having noticed it at first, Bill was surprised by how much more easily he could breath. His smile widened, and was rewarded with a short laugh from the other man.

"Nah, I don't think so. This really just makes us even," Ichabod replied quietly. Something in his tone convinced Bill that Ichabod was not speaking of the same thing he had been a moment ago.

"Even? How d'you mean, even?" demanded Bill, with a small scowl.

Ichabod raised his eyebrows expressively, giving the redhead a pointed look. "Seventh year, the Charms N.E.W.T." He paused, giving Bill a chance to say something, and then added, "Or have you forgotten already, _Mr Head Boy_?"

"Oh." Bill winced, remembering the incident to which Ichabod was referring; it was not, no matter how he looked at it, one of his most shining moments. "That was an accident."

Ichabod shrugged and relaxed a little further into his chair. Perfectly calm now, he felt comfortable enough to tease his old classmate, announcing, "Maybe, but it was the only reason I passed. I should have had you interfere with all of my exams; maybe I'd have a better job."

"I thought I heard somewhere that you liked your job," snapped Bill, feeling a slight, dull warmth spread up the back of his neck. Damn -- he'd thought that only his brothers could make him blush anymore. Then again, he _was _a Weasley. How humiliating.

Apparently knowing exactly what had caused Bill to react as he had, Ichabod grinned smugly. "I might, except Fudge is a stinking, one-eyed baboon-headed twatface," he replied, offhandedly.

Determined not to give Ichabod the satisfaction of another sharp response, Bill merely arched one eyebrow and murmured noncommittally, "Interesting expression."

Much to his chagrin, Ichabod laughed. "Come on, you know he is.-- Besides, I got that from you."

The accusation, of course, brought to mind one of their least pleasant encounters over the seven years they'd attended Hogwarts together, just as it had been meant to. Bill grinned wolfishly and narrowed his eyes.

"You're right," he murmured, mock-thoughtfully, "Isn't that what I called you while we were on our last Hogwarts Express ride?"

Ichabod nodded and chuckled, now thoroughly immersed in nostalgia. "Right before you blacked my eye, yeah."

"You deserved it," huffed Bill, though his smile and his tone assured the other man that he wasn't truly annoyed. "You insulted my mother."

"I didn't mean to. I was just annoyed," explained Ichabod, in the tone of one who's made this same claim several times in the past with the same unsatisfactory results. For good measure, he added, "You used to be rather a prat, you know."

"Used to be?" demanded someone else, from the door way. Both men glanced over to see Charlie Weasley standing there with an amused expression on his face. "Come on, he still _is_."

"I think you might be right," agreed Ichabod, grinning. "Maybe I shouldn't have saved him, eh?"

"And break dear ol' Mum's heart? Get real, Hobbes," snorted Charlie, advancing into the room and settling in a chair across from Ichabod. Once he was comfortable, he went on, "Anyway, your family probably would have ended up proud of you if you'd done that."

"Yes, I must disappoint my relatives, mustn't I?"

They both chuckled darkly.

There were several minutes of mostly companionable silence, and then Bill turned to Ichabod and reminded him, "You know, you still haven't answered my question. What are you doing here, Ichabod?"

"I was hoping you'd wake up," answered Ichabod, after a moment. "I wanted to thank you."

"What for?" asked Charlie, turning to fix Ichabod with a serious expression. Despite this, he looked curious. "You saved him, remember?"

"I think for talking to me all those years ago, when we were at school. I never realized how important it was to me that you didn't hate me on sight, like everyone else the Malfoys didn't approve of -- if you hadn't been friendly, I probably wouldn't have ended up where I am now."

"And where is that, exactly...?"

"Dumbledore's asked me to join the Order--"

Charlie's eyebrows rose, and he smiled widely, interrupting to say, "Again? Good."

"--and I've accepted," Ichabod finished, as if neither of them said anything.

Bill's wolfish grin was back again, as he shared a glance with his younger brother. "Even better," he announced

Which was, of course, the moment that Ichabod was truly convinced he'd made the right decision. For he was sure he didn't want to be, even my proxy, the Weasleys' enemy. Nothing good would ever come of being on the opposite side of the family of redheads.

"When?" demanded Charlie, breaking into Ichabod's train of thought. He blinked, startled and confused, and Charlie elaborated, "When are you joining?"

"Two nights from now," Ichabod answered promptly. Seeing the looks on the Weasleys' faces, he hurried to add, "It would have been tonight, but there are some Aurors that Dumbledore wants to bring in as well, and they won't be available until then."

Bill's eyebrows rose. "Aurors?"

Ichabod nodded. "Yes, a bout half a dozen, I think. Shacklebolt picked them out himself, I understand, several months ago, and has been carefully feeling them out ever since."

"I wonder what finally convinced them," mused Charlie, looking pensive.

Bill'd had the same thought, and though he knew it was improbable, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe Harry's unjust arrest had been part of it. He glanced at Ichabod, to find him smirking in a very unsettling fashion -- he altogether too much reminded Bill of the man's Malfoy cousins.

"What?" he asked sharply, his eyes narrowed at his former classmate.

"I believe that the decisions of at least half of the six are the direct result of exposure to a certain black-haired, bespectacled Dark Wizard magnet -- specifically his unfortunate arrest and subsequent incarceration," explained Ichabod, still looking unbearably smug.

As he concluded his little speech, Bill and Charlie exchanged a knowing glance and they, too, began to smirk.

"Way to go, Harry..."

**o.o.o.o**

Hermione Granger was never going to forgive herself, and she was never going on vacation with her parents again, either. She'd only been gone for a few weeks this time, exploring Muggle Cyprus with her parents, but when she'd returned she'd found a mountain of letters from Ron and Ginny Weasley and stack of _Daily Prophets_ waiting to be read. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad, despite her parents' earlier insistence that she not receive magical mail during their trip, if only she'd read the letters from the Weasleys first.

But the headline on the topmost copy of the _Prophet_ had been too interesting to pass up -- it had included both Azkaban and You-Know-Who. And, of course, Harry's name had been mentioned halfway through the first paragraph, which had her flying through the rest of the article, and then the previous seven _Prophets_, and within a half an hour, she'd known the worst.

Harry had been arrested for multiple crimes, including murder. Dumbledore hadn't prevented it. Harry had been sent to Azkaban. Dumbledore hadn't prevented it. Voldemort had attacked Azkaban. Dumbledore hadn't prevented it. Voldemort had killed everyone in the prison. Dumbledore hadn't prevented it.

Harry had supposedly been killed.

She hadn't prevented it.

She wasn't sure, once she'd finished going through the rest of the newspapers and all of her letters, at whom she was the maddest. For the moment it would have to be herself, for being absent. But she had a fairly firm suspicion that in a few hours, it was going to be Ron, for not having done anything.

And then, tomorrow, it was going to be Dumbledore, _for not having done anything_.

She was still having trouble believing that it was all true. It seemed impossible that not only had Harry been arrested by the Ministry of Magic -- for something he surely hadn't done -- but also that he was _dead_. Thought of a world without Harry was, as Ron had said in one of his letters, unthinkable. In fact, it was so impossible, that Hermione had gone so far as to pretend she hadn't read that bit. Or, at least, that it wasn't _true_. (It helped that _Prophet _article had also made the ludicrous statement that Harry had aligned himself with Voldemort; Hell itself would have to freeze over for _that _to ever happen. She wondered how _anyone _could believe such tripe.)

"Ridiculous," snarled Hermione, rooting through the contents of her trunk for a specific book and wishing that she had the Hogwarts library at her disposal. She needed to do some reading, and then she needed to talk to Ron and they needed to come up with a plan. Because, if she ignored the part about Harry's death (which she was definitely doing), it meant that Harry was either stuck at Azkaban by himself, or off somewhere in Voldemort's clutches.

And neither of those possibilities were going to let her get any sleep at night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, or anything in this world expect, well, Ichabod. I would really be bummed if I got sued for it, since I don't mean any harm.

**Author's Notes:** Before I say anything else, can I please just beg everyone not to die of shock? I realize I have not posted anything on this story in... forever... and I have no excuse, no explanation, except to say that my personal life took about eight million unexpected detours, while at the same time my writing inspiration channeled itself into, erm, different avenues. I can only apologize, profusely and repeatedly, and thank in advance anyone who is still willing to read this. (Again, profusely and repeatedly.)

That said, please read and review, if only to let me know that there are still people out there for whom I should continue writing this?

**o.o.o.o**

The other prisoners of Azkaban, Harry soon discovered, were all either Order members, Ministry employees, or simply people who Voldemort would most likely be expected to find deeply annoying. Additionally, they were all -- to a man -- completely baffled as to the fact that they were still alive, and even more the how and why behind that fact.

"B-but--" stammered one man, the man Harry had initially recognized as a member of the Order, when he awoke to find Harry standing, arms akimbo, over him. "Aren't I _dead_?"

"Apparently not," was Harry's terse reply. He glanced around at the other prisoners, all of whom had already made their way into similarly astonished wakefulness. "Should you be?"

"I don't think I've eaten in a week, at least," the man said, in the same disbelieving tone. "And I -- You're _Harry Potter_. Aren't _you_ dead?"

"Apparently not," Harry repeated, a little sardonically. "As for eating, I hope you weren't counting on it -- there's not a lot of food here. I've looked. I think the dementors were supposed to feed me -- probably not you, of course, but me -- though it would seem they forgot about it. Or just didn't care."

The man blinked at him.

"Fortunately, sustenance does not seem to be an issue either of us needs to worry about," Harry went on, briefly transferring his gaze to meet that of the only female prisoner, since she seemed the most frightened by the predicament. Then he looked back at the man, who was so far the only one willing to actually _speak_ to Harry. "I wouldn't try to puzzle out why, however. It's all rather a mystery."

His sarcasm was lost upon the prisoners.

"We _are_ in Azkaban, aren't we?" piped up one of the other man, quite hesitantly. He looked amazed that the words had actually left his mouth.

Harry smiled in a way that was not friendly, not reassuring, and not in the least directed at them. "For the moment."

Then he got down to business.

**o.o.o.o**

Bill Weasley had been awake for several hours, and he hadn't been alone for a single moment of them. First it had been Ichabod and Charlie, and then his parents had arrived to help his brother and friend in harassing him. Ichabod had left a few minutes ago, however, and after receiving several significant looks from his parents, Charlie had done likewise.

There was silence in the Hospital Wing for several minutes. Bill had not been their son for twenty-something odd years without learning to recognize when his parents had something _important _they wanted to say.

He'd also not spent his whole life as a Weasley without learning to appreciate watching people -- especially other Weasleys -- squirm.

Finally, after a none too gentle prod in the ribs from Molly, Arthur cleared his throat and began, "You haven't asked yet, Bill, why you're at Hogwarts instead of in St. Mungo's."

Missing his mother's exasperated glare at his father, Bill shrugged calmly. "I figured you'd tell me eventually."

"Ah, well." Arthur cleared his throat again, looking vaguely uncomfortable for some reason, which intrigued Bill. "Dumbledore, and the rest of the Order, have decided that after the debacle with the Ministry regarding Harry, they're really not willing to rely on any person or place with very strong ties to the government. And St. Mungo's is, as you know --"

"Funded mostly by the Ministry and private donations from the same sort of Pureblood scum as convinced Fudge to put Harry in Azkaban," Bill finished for him knowingly. He flashed an almost feral grin. "Yeah. I'd thought it might be something like that."

"Harry did have his wand, you know," exclaimed Molly hurriedly, as if she'd been dying to tell him this and only waited for Bill's mention of the boy to let loose.

Bill stared at her, blankly, trying to figure out how that could be relevant to what he'd just said. "... What?"

"Fred and George went to the Muggles' house right after we were called to that Order meeting, found it lying in his room. They ran into Ichabod when the came to try and find us, remembered he was friendly with you and Dumbledore, and gave it to him -- he assures us that Harry got it."

"But, I thought..." muttered Bill, finding himself dwelling unpleasantly on the implications of Harry having his wand when being confronted by Voldemort. He didn't like the sensation, and forced his thoughts back down a different road. "How?"

"Apparently, he had Draco Malfoy do it."

For several seconds there was stunned silence, with Bill once again staring blankly at his parents, before he blurted incredulously, "But, he hates Harry! I-- Harry hates _him_."

"Yes," agreed Arthur, but the expression on his face was thoughtful, as if this was something he'd spent at least part of the past several days considering. "But apparently, he's rather fond of Ichabod, who _is_ his cousin, you know."

"Yes, I know," Bill mumbled, slightly shellshocked into idiocy.

"Well, anyway." Arthur cleared his throat. "His fondness for Ichabod is apparently greater than his hatred of Harry, since he cooperated, for whatever reason. Albus sees this as important."

"He would. And speaking of important, has there been any more news about..." Bill cleared his throat. "...about Harry?"

"No," murmured Molly, shaking her head sadly. Bill thought he could see tears shimmering in her eyes. "Nothing."

Gritting his teeth, Bill suppressed a surge of impotent annoyance. "Have we even tried to get to Azkaban?"

Arthur exchanged glances with his wife and then said shortly, "Yes."

Bill waited a moment. "Well?"

"No-one can get within a mile of the island," the Weasley patriarch confessed, ruefully. He sounded thoroughly bemused.

Bill's eyes widened. "What?"

Arthur and Molly shared another glance and then in unison made a gesture that was very nearly a shrug, but not quite. After a few more moments, Arthur explained, "We can't approach it. Brooms get near it and they find themselves on the other side, flying away. Portkeys land their passengers in the water off the coast. Boats do the same things brooms do. We can't understand it."

"That's..." But Bill didn't have words for what it was, and he let his sentence hang, as he grimaced.

"Not to worry, though; Albus's got a team working on figuring it out, son," said Arthur, and something in his weary tone gave the impression that he'd said the same thing countless times already and was getting tired of it.

This caused something to occur to Bill, and abruptly he narrowed his eyes. "Where are the others, Dad?"

His parents shared yet another look, in their son's eyes obviously intending to pretend ignorance of his meaning. The warning in the looks they were giving each other belied that impression, however.

"Others?" said Molly casually, her forced tone confirming Bill's suspicion.

"Yes, others. My brothers. Are they on this team of Dumbledore's?" His parents didn't say anything right away, so Bill forcefully added, "Fred and George would probably consider that quite an interesting challenge."

Silence hung in the air of the hospital wing for entire minutes on end.

"Dumbledore's not letting them help," Arthur eventually confessed. His tone was resigned, his next look at Molly long-suffering. "Any of them. They're all back at Grimmauld Place."

This seemed completely absurd to Bill.

"_What_?"

"After you were poisoned, it seemed to occur to Albus that Weasleys must be enormous targets," said his mother, in one of her best falsely reasonable tones. "He decided it would be too much of a risk to involve any of you more than externally, at least for the moment."

Bill's face turned rather rather red and he blurted, "Damn it, that's such bullsh--"

"Bill!" cried a new voice, from the doorway, effectively cutting off both his words and his mental train of thought.

Three heads turned toward the voice. All of them were surprised, and only one of them immediately recognized the woman storming into the hospital wing.

"Fleur?" muttered Bill, confusion crossing his still-red face. "What are--"

But the young French woman was not listening. "I came as soon as I 'eard!" she exclaimed, reaching Bill's bed and throwing herself dramatically, but firmly, down next to him. His left hand was caught rather inexplicably in one of hers -- her other was waving under his nose quite threateningly. "Which, I should add, was _not _soon."

"Fleur, I--" he started to say, not sure what he meant to follow the two words. He was very certain, however, that he would have spoken them without looking at either of his parents… assuming, of course, he'd actually been allowed to speak them.

"'mph," muttered Fleur discontentedly. She leveled a sort of worried glare at him. "I thought you told me that Gringotts would tell me if you got 'urt?"

Seeing from the corner of his eye how Molly reacted to the information contained in that statement, Bill winced. "Yes, they're supposed to, Fleur, but--"

"Do you know 'ow I 'eard?" she demanded relentlessly. Her glare became even fiercer.

Internally sighing, Bill shook his head. "No, I--"

"It was in the paper, like that 'orrible piece about 'Arry." She paused to shoot daggers at him with her eyes, pointing an incensed, disapproving finger at his face. "The paper, Bill!"

"Bill," interrupted his mother, finally getting a word in edgewise, "what is going on here?"

"Ah. Mum." Bill cleared his throat. He that, rather futilely, of escape. "You remember Fleur?"

"Of course." Molly did not look the least bit appeased. Sharply, she started, "But I was under the impression she'd gone back to France--"

"I 'ad! But you could not exzpect me to _stay _there when I 'eard about Bill! If I did that, I would _'ardly _be a good--"

"Ah, Mum!" Bill interrupted quickly, weakly, his face going even redder than before. "Did I forget to tell you? Fleur and I are--"

Fluer gasped, and cut him off angrily. Her hand around his grew painfully tight; her eyes flashed briefly beady. "You did not tell them? Bill!"

"I was _going _to."

"When?" Fluer demanded, looking not the slightest bit mollified. Pointedly, she added, "The morning before the wedding?"

"WEDDING!" shrieked Molly, suddenly on her feet. "What do you mean, _wedding_?"

While both women glared at him, Bill stared at his mother with wide eyes and, in a quiet, sheepish voice, said, "I guess I definitely forgot to mention it, then."

**o.o.o.o**

When Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place, she was not expected (contrary to what she'd told her parents). She slipped in the front door, relieved that there was no one in the foyer, and headed up to Ron's room. It would, she felt, be the best place to locate him without herself being seen, given that he had to return there at _some _point...

Not only was she correct, but she was also in luck: Ron was kneeling on the floor at the foot of his bed, head and shoulders practically buried in his trunk. She entered the room as quietly as she could, closing the door softly behind her.

"Hullo, Hermione," came Ron's voice from his trunk, startling her, as he hadn't turned around. She barely had time to return the greeting before he asked, not unkindly, "What are you doing here?"

"I..." she began, unsure, and then stopped.

"Spit it out," he insisted. "You must have a reason for showing up. And if I know you, which I do, it's probably got something to do with what happened to Harry. Am I wrong?"

"Well, no," admitted Hermione, feeling slightly flustered.

"Knew it."

When he said nothing further, Hermione gave his back a slow, grim smile. No point in not jumping right in, after a reception like that. So, "We're going to go get Harry. I mean, the _real _Harry, because the one in the paper definitely isn't him, right? It couldn't have been -- which means he's probably still at Azkaban. We're going to get him."

"I know," replied Ron, barely glancing up from whatever it was he was doing in his trunk. Hermione blanched slightly.

"You do?" she asked, sounding rather surprised.

"Yeah." Ron sat back on his heels and turned blue eyes that were cool, eerily and uncharacteristically calm, up to her face. "I'm just waiting for you to tell me what makes you think we're going to be able to do it."

"Right." Hermione cleared her throat. Then, collecting herself, she began again, saying, "Well, I was doing some research and I discovered that--"

"Wait a sec," called a low voice from hall. They turned to see Fred and George slipping into the room, still stuffing Extendable Ears back into their pockets. "We want to help."

"So do I," said Ginny, entering behind them. Fred and George gave her a startled look; apparently they hadn't noticed that she'd been eavesdropping on their eavesdropping.

"Right," said Hermione, trying to keep from beaming at them too strongly. Knowing that it wasn't just her and Ron against the rest of the Wizarding world was a fantastic feeling; it almost made up for not having Harry around to lead them. "Of course you do."

Ron cleared his throat loudly, and pointedly lifted his brows at her. "Well, Hermione? What is it that you've discovered?"

"Ah, yes. Right," repeated Hermione, giving her head a little shake to clear it, and then launching into her findings with zeal. "Everyone thinks that the Ministry built Azkaban, don't they?"

"Yeah..." murmured Fred, as his siblings nodded. They clearly didn't know what this had to do with anything, but were willing to play along. "D'you mean to say they didn't?"

"No, they didn't. And it wasn't originally a prison, either." Hermione paused to savor the thrill of imparting information. "It _used _to be the main castle of a magically gifted nobleman about four hundred years ago, a Viscount Weisly or something, until he had a falling out with the people in charge of the country, and it was confiscated and turned into a prison, which funnily enough was where he was sent."

"That's very interesting, Hermione, but what's your _point_?"

"It's a _castle_, really," she repeated forcefully. Then, when they did leap to the appropriate conclusion, impatiently explained, "There's a back entrance."

The Weasleys exchanged thoughtful, suddenly excited looks. "Go on, Hermione."

Grinning smugly, Hermione pulled a scroll of parchment from her bag and unrolled it to reveal that one half was a mapped section of English coastline, with a thick red line leading to an island offshore, and the other half was a detail of that island, including the large structure that took up most of it. "From what I could discover, there appears to have been a tunnel -- absurdly long but magically reenforced, so it's not as impractical as it sounds -- from the coast on the mainland, that comes up in the dungeons of the main keep."

George groaned. "Great, Azkaban's dungeons."

"No, actually." Hermione cast him a reassuring look, and hurried on. "Only the main and upper floors of the castle are currently being used as a prison; the Azkaban as we think of it. The other floors, the cellars and the dungeon, for some unidentifiable reason, were walled off as soon as the Ministry took possession. No-one seems to remember that they were ever there, and no-one's been in them for hundreds of years, I'll bet."

There was a long pause, as Hermione trailed off and Ron leaned over to get a better look at the map.

Hermione explained why this excited her so much. "So, feasibly, if we could find the other end of the tunnel -- it was supposedly hidden in a cave somewhere, and as you can see I've got a pretty good idea of the general area where it should be located -- then we could use that to get over to the Island. And from there it's just a simple matter of searching until we find Harry."

"Or his body," mumbled Ginny, making a face.

As if he were ignoring the possible suggestion that Harry might be already dead, Fred hurried to demand, "But what makes you think the tunnel won't have collapsed by now?"

"Like I said, it was magically reenforced, designed to hold up for centuries." Hermione grinned. "Just the same as the secret tunnels at Hogwarts."

"That doesn't explain how we're going to get close to the island just because we're underwater," George reminded them, with a frown.

"What?" asked Hermione, with a similar frown. Fred and George shared a look.

"You know, how brooms and boats suddenly appear on the other side, and Portkeys land people in the water," Ginny explained for them. "What's to say that the same thing isn't going to happen with this tunnel of yours?"

"Oh." This having apparently been news to Hermione, she had to stop and consider it for awhile. At length, she ventured pensively, "Well, it's a part of Azkaban, isn't it? Built right in, as it were. If we can just get _inside _the tunnel, we should be fine."

"What do we do if there are Death Eaters guarding the place?" demanded Fred.

"Or the dementors are still there?" put in George.

Hermione frowned slightly. "Well, I don't--"

"What I'd really like to know, Hermione, is why, since _you've_ clearly managed to figure all of this out, you obviously don't think someone else might have done the same," said Ron, cutting her off. When she just stared at him, he added, "It's rather important, if you think about it, since anyone who'd go to the trouble to find a back way into Azkaban would obviously intend to _use_ it. And we really don't want to run into anyone else while we're doing this, do we?"

'Oh, come on, Ron, _really_," she snapped in slightly offended exasperation. Then, following a moment of silence and the boy's pointed raising of two flaming red brows, she sighed softly to acknowledge that yes, he did in fact have a valid point, and murmured, "I doubt any other living person knows any of this, because of what I had to _do_ to figure all of this out."

Ginny regarded her friend with trepidation. "What did you have to do?"

"Well, I started out just looking into the history of Azkaban, without any kind of purpose really, because I had to do _something_. And then I sort of got an idea, especially as _none_ of my books covered Azkaban's actual _origins_," explained Hermione. She paused a moment, and it looked as if she were about to start pacing, but instead she shot them all triumphant, vaguely superior looks. "From there, it took me _two days_, a ridiculously expensive amount of new books, and _eight _search subjects before I even had an _idea_ that I should be studying the Weisly holdings, much less as they were before they were taken over by the monarchy."

"Eight?" repeated George, looking and sounding slightly dazed.

"Well, I didn't _start_ by looking for information on the fates of island manors belonging to defunct magical nobility, did I?" she snapped tartly, crossing her arms.

"Okay. I'll admit, that's a lot of work," muttered Fred, as an aside to his twin, both of them still apparently startled -- and impressed. Ginny nodded her rather amazed agreement.

"Even given all of that, I almost missed this," Hermione finished, rather anticlimactically, with a half-hearted flourish toward the map depicting the tunnel. She stared at it. Then, softly, "God, if this doesn't work--"

"You know," Ron muttered, jumping into the middle of the conversation and surprising them with his abruptness, "I think I've got a plan."

His smile sent shivers down Hermione's spine.

It reminded her of how he looked right before he'd obliterate her at chess.

**o.o.o.o**

Harry was smiling.

After a rather lengthy interrogation of his prisoners, he had a plan. Well, it was not so much a plan as it was an _idea_, but that was all he needed. He had decided exactly what he was going to do with -- or, rather, _to_ -- Voldemort as soon as he got out. None of it was pleasant, and a month ago just the thought of it would probably have made him ill.

Oh, he could not _wait _to get out.

Unfortunately, he still hadn't decided exactly how he should go about doing _that_.

He had discovered, somewhat to his surprise -- since every other part of the fortress had been eerily comforting and, ultimately, accommodating, especially since he was now convinced that it was the place itself that was somehow making it so he, and the other prisoners, did not need to eat, or do most other things normally associated with survival -- that he could still not stand to get any closer to the gates than he'd been able to the first time he'd seen them. Moreover, while he'd found a surprising number of external windows that should have been large enough for him to slip through, whenever he tried to fit any part of his body into the spaces, they seemed abruptly too small for him or anything else -- like, say, a gnat. Doors and other entrances to the battlements refused to cooperate with him in a similar manner.

Every time he made anything that even looked like an attempt to leave Azkaban, the fortress itself rebuffed him. And it did it with what seemed almost an _air of reproach_.

And yet, he was certain, to the marrow of his bones, that whatever this entity, this presence in the walls, the stones and mortar, of Azkaban actually _was_, however it had gotten there or was meant to do -- it did not intend to actually _keep_ him here, not permanently.

In fact, it almost felt as if the place was trying to tell him to _wait_ for something.

Harry could not imagine what that might be.


End file.
